


Freckles

by nothingventurred (nothingventured)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BAMF!Anthea, Blood, Child Abuse, Clues, Death, Kidnapping, M/M, Murder, Psychological Torture, Stabbing, Terror, Torture, audio torture, break-up, casefic, childhood flashbacks, mystrade, relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:46:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 49,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingventured/pseuds/nothingventurred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft has been the Iceman for as long as he can remember, with some very dark secrets beneath that ice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Greg leaned up against his partner, head resting on the ginger’s shoulder. It was around nine o’clock, and the two had spent a rare mutual day off lounging around the DI’s flat, watching telly and occasionally sleeping. Mycroft found Greg’s flat to be a bit more warm and comfortable than his own.

They had spent their two months of dating simply content with lovely dinners out, kissing, and the occasional over-the-clothes groping, though Greg felt a little uncomfortable with grabbing at Mycroft’s crotch through his expensive trousers, so most of their intimate behaviour consisted of snogging and cuddling. Not to say that it was bad in itself, but Greg was beginning to wonder why Mycroft hadn’t initiated any type of sexual contact. He was a Holmes, after all, and if Sherlock was anything to go by, Holmes’ took exactly what they wanted. So why hadn’t Mycroft made a move yet? Greg decided to take matters into his own hands (literally, he hoped).

The DI tilted his head up and pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s cheek, and the ginger turned his head, removing his reading glasses and setting the magazine he had been reading down on the coffee table. He smiled tenderly at the DI and reached up to thread his fingers through the short, greying hair. “Something on your mind.” he murmured, more of a statement than a question. After all, he was a Holmes; he knew when something was amiss.

”I just, ah…” Greg struggled to find the right words. “You and I have been dating for what, two months?”

”Two months, three days, nineteen hours and twenty minutes. But go on.”

Greg shook his head, trying to remember that he was dating Mycroft Holmes, and the man was bound to remember things like that. God help Greg if he ever forgot their anniversary…

”I was just curious why you haven’t…y’know, slept over yet.” he cleared his throat, avoiding Mycroft’s eyes. Speaking to Mycroft was almost like speaking to royalty,

”I was unaware that your bed was more comfortable than mine.” Mycroft replied, picking up his magazine again and readjusting his glasses. Greg let out a soft huff, amazed at how one man could be both such a genius, and at the same time be a complete idiot.

”Mycroft.” Greg reached over and snatched up the magazine, giving the government official a look. “You know exactly what I mean. Why haven’t we done anything yet?”

”We’ve done plenty.” Mycroft replied, still slightly confused. For the life of him, he never could figure out the underlying tones of human emotions. He could deduce what you had for breakfast, your favourite music genre, and if you had any type of illness just by looking at you, but emotions were lost on him. He had always hated trying to comfort others, as he never quite knew what to say. He blamed his parents for that, they hadn’t exactly been the best of teachers, but deep down he knew it was just as much his fault for failing to try to better understand emotions, no matter how irrational. Though, to be fair, most emotions were irrational.

”Mycroft…” Greg sighed, then reached up to rub his eyes; he knew that this was one of the things that Mycroft struggled with (he blamed the Holmes genetics) and he tried to be patient.

”I’m just wondering why you haven’t spent the night here yet.”

”Because I have my own flat…?”

”Okay, I’ll put this in the bluntest of terms; why haven’t we had sex?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows; oh.

”You never asked.” he answered simply, removing his glasses and cleaning them with the corner of his shirt, “I assumed you weren’t interested in sexual intercourse with me. Evidently, and this is a rarity, I was wrong.”

The DI sat back, dumbstruck. “You thought I wasn’t…I…okay.” he blinked a few times, trying to process this. “You seriously thought I wasn’t interested in sex with you? Okay. Just a question…why did you think I wasn’t interested in having sex with you?”

Mycroft turned his head to look at the other man, but avoided his eyes. He could hear his mother’s stern tone in his ear, scolding him as if he were five years old again.

_”No one likes chubby boys, Mycroft.”_

_”We’ll need to find a way to get rid of those horrid freckles.”_

_”Good god, your hair is the colour of carrots!”_

_”You have your father’s nose, you poor thing.”_

_”Your only saving grace is your intelligence, Mycroft. Perhaps you’ll find someone interested in your brain, because they certainly wouldn’t be interested in anything else, honestly.”_

_”Why can’t you look more like your baby brother?”_

That last one had always stung the worst, because even Mycroft had to admit that Sherlock had been the more beautiful child. And, let’s face it, the more beautiful adult, at least to their mother. There were upwards of a hundred albums at the Holmes estate just of pictures of Sherlock, all carefully put together and properly labelled with names and dates. Sherlock hated the pictures, they reminded him of a childhood he would rather forget, but at least he had the security of knowing that Mummy cared enough to keep them. Mycroft couldn’t recall having ever seen a picture of himself up on the mantle, not when he was a child, and certainly not now, though pictures of Sherlock still littered the walls of the manor, along with short newspaper articles detailing his brilliance. An entire two-page story had been done about Mycroft in one of the more famous news magazine publications, detailing his accomplishments during the Syrian crisis, and his mother hadn’t even saved the pages. He knew for a fact she got the subscription, he had bought it for her for her birthday one year (among many other things she didn’t appreciate) and had continued renewing it for upwards of ten years. He didn’t know why he had expected any different (after all, he was no Sherlock, at least in her eyes) but it still stung.

”Mycroft?”

Greg’s voice jolted him from his self-pitying reverie.

”I…no reason. I just didn’t think about it, I suppose.” Mycroft still avoided the other man’s eyes. Greg furrowed his brow; something was definitely wrong, he could tell that without being a Holmes.

”Mycroft,” he murmured, placing a hand on the government official’s arm, “Something wrong?”

”No.” Mycroft responded, a little too quickly. “Not at all.”

The DI pursed his lips, then reached out to take Mycroft’s hand. “Mycroft…”

”Drop it.” Mycroft snapped, turning his head to stare at the DI, his eyes flashing. Greg pulled back a little, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “Okay, okay, Christ!” he muttered, “You don’t have to get so goddamn defensive.”

Mycroft’s anger quickly subsided, and was replaced by guilt. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, molding his face and voice into a perfect mimicry of exhaustion. “I’ve just had…a difficult week.” he lied, watching the DI’s face carefully. Greg nodded, putting his hands down. “Right. Sorry.” he said softly, moving back closer to Mycroft. “C’mere,” he murmured, opening his arms.

Mycroft managed a smile and leaned into his lover’s arms, sighing softly; Greg had bought it, bought into the lie. He had managed to fool his lover for now, thank god. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep of the facade, but for now, his secret was safe.


	2. Chapter 2

As the weeks passed, Mycroft became more and more comfortable around the Detective Inspector, even revealing a few of his little quirks, such as the fact that he was on the debate team in school (no surprise), his favourite song was 'Iris' by the Goo Goo Dolls (also not really a surprise, at least not to the government official, because the song did describe his entire existence), and that he used concealer on his freckles. 

He didn't elaborate on that last one, but he suspected that the DI had some idea why; after all, the man wasn't stupid, he probably could tell just by looking at Mycroft that he had been bullied as a child, thank god he couldn't tell to what extent. But, bless him, he didn't push things, and for that, Mycroft was extremely grateful. He had simply nodded, giving a simple "That's interesting." or "Huh, didn't expect that." and going back to his morning paper or whatever else he had been doing at the time Mycroft decided to reveal these small secrets that didn't really have any meaning, but nonetheless eased his guilt at not telling his lover much else, and for lying constantly about if he was upset over something. He knew that Greg would see him as whiny and needy if he ever revealed the true reasons he was upset, and how often, so he kept them bottled up inside, only releasing them in safe places, such as his private jet on his business trips; come to think of it, Anthea was the only person in his adult life who had ever seen him cry tears that weren't intended as a manipulation technique. He hated lying to Greg, but he didn't want to lose his lover.

Lover.

He had come to truly appreciate that term as of late; he had dated in the past, and of course, had sex with various people, but Greg was honestly the first one he felt he really 'clicked' with. He knew it was ridiculous, of course, as humans are not puzzle pieces, and they don't 'fit' anywhere. But sometimes he would catch Greg looking at him, smiling fondly or seemingly deep in thought over something about Mycroft, and a warm feeling would spread in his chest; a feeling that was something akin to love, or adoration, or affection. Perhaps a combination of the three.

He would immediately push those feelings down, however, because he knew that if Greg ever saw the true personality of Mycroft Holmes, he would turn tail and run away as fast as he could. And Mycroft wanted to avoid that as much as possible. He needed to be careful, needed to show just enough emotion to keep Gregory from becoming suspicious, but not so much as to reveal his true feelings about many of the things he was now facing.

He swallowed, feeling his stomach flip. The stress of both his job and his current relationship (though he was placing the stress of the latter on himself) had been making his migraines more frequent, and he had developed acid reflux from the stress. He kept those things hidden from his lover as well; he had always kept his medical issues a secret, knowing full-well that it wasn't healthy. That was another secret; he _wasn't_ healthy. Not by a long shot. He struggled with his weight, his migraines, the acid reflux, and a sporadic pain in his left knee that came to be as a result of dislocating it as a child. Well, he hadn't dislocated it, his father had, but he wasn't about to revisit that.

He sat back at his desk, placing his hand right at his diaphragm. He swallowed and reached into his drawer for his antacid medication, which he quickly downed, then sat back and closed his eyes, willing his stomach to settle so he could get on with his reports.

"Sir?"

Mycroft opened his eyes and quickly dropped his hand, seeing Anthea in the doorway.

"Yes?" 

"DI Lestrade is here to see you."

"What about?" Damn. He didn't want his lover to see him this way. Then again, Gregory wasn't _terribly_ bright, maybe he wouldn't notice. He hated to say that about his partner, but it was true. At least, compared to Mycroft, he wasn't very bright. But no one was terribly bright when compared to a Holmes, so perhaps he was underestimating Gregory...

"Sir?" Anthea's voice broke through his mental fog.

Mycroft shook his head and glanced back at Anthea. "Hm?"

"He says it's just for a lunch date. Should I tell him to come back?"

"I...," Mycroft sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Shut the door."

Anthea nodded, closing the heavy wooden door behind her. She approaced his desk and leaned against it, setting her handbag down on the floor. "What is it, Mycroft?" she asked, her voice filled with both concern and curiosity.

Mycroft's lips twitched up; in public, it was Sir, Boss, or Mr. Holmes. In private, he preferred that Anthea call him Mycroft. Even though they weren't equals (not by a long shot), he still preferred to be on a first-name basis with the woman, as she did most of the grunt work for him, and for that, he was immensely grateful. The fact that she was also a person he considered to be a friend also contributed to that fact. He could trust Anthea, a rarity, as he couldn't even trust his own family. 

Anthea waited patiently for her boss to speak, noting his obvious (well, obvious to her) discomfort. She had worked for Mycroft long enough to know that he was an expert at hiding his problems, and most of the time, it just made said problems worse. There were days when she felt more like a therapist than an assistant, but she knew that this was what came with the job. The incredible benefits and fat paycheck also helped.

"Can you give him an excuse for me? I prefer not to be seen like this. The reflux is back, and I can feel a migraine approaching." he murmured, leaning forward and cradling his head in his hands.

Anthea nodded, then reached down and pulled a bottle of pills from her handbag. "Your medication," she said softly, setting the bottle down in front of Mycroft. "Would you like your eye mask and icepack? And perhaps a glass of water, you know how the headaches get when you're dehydrated..."

"They are not headaches, they are migraines." he snapped, "Very large difference between the two. Comparing a headache to a migraine is like comparing Hannibal to Ghandi."

Anthea just nodded, used to Mycroft's small outbursts. While they did annoy her at times, she knew that the man was under constant stress, and that frustrated outbursts were to be expected; after all, the man _was_ the British government, and carried most of the world on his shoulders. It would probably kill anyone else who tried, she thought, so she could deal with Mycroft's attitude as long as he kept the country safe.

Mycroft lifted his head and sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I'm sorry," he murmured, "It's just...difficult. Painful."

"I know." Anthea replied, daring to place her hand on her boss's shoulder. "Perhaps you should tell Gregory about some of this, at least about the medical problems." she offered.

"I cannot be seen as weak, Anthea. It would ruin my self-confidence."

"Or self-destruction."

Mycroft was silent for a long while, then shook his head. "I cannot tell him of these matters. It would be damaging to our relationship, and I can't afford that."

"It's damaging your relationship whether you tell him or not." Anthea replied, removing her hand from the shoulder of Mycroft's suit. "For the most observant man in the world, you are quite blind to your own relationship dilemmas."

"How so?"

"Well, for one, your partner is dissatisfied with the amount of intimacy in your relationship."

"Anthea!"

"Not physical intimacy, Mycroft. Emotional intimacy. He is uncomfortable with the fact that you refuse to share anything with him, most notably the facts about your childhood. How do you think he will react when he finds out that you've told me more about your past abuse than him? And I'm merely your assistant. You really think he won't be hurt by this?"

" _If_ he finds out." Mycroft replied, feeling the pain in his temple flare up again.

"No, when. He isn't as stupid as you give him credit for."

The government official lifted his head and tried to glare at the young woman now sitting on the side of his desk, but it was no use. She was right, and he knew it.

"You're absolutely positive you aren't Dr. Phil in a skirt?" he muttered.

Anthea chuckled, picking up the pill bottle and tossing it back and forth in her hands. "If I were, do you really think I'd be spending my days sending texts and writing your reports?"

"We agreed, code of silence on that."

"Of course, _Sir_." she replied with a mock salute.

Mycroft felt the pain in his head subsiding for now, along with the stomachache. He actually managed a laugh at Anthea's ridiculous gesture. 

"Honestly, Anthea, how is it possible that you are better at reading people than I? I seem to recall that I have the highest IQ."

"You look for the outward signs of emotion, clues. I place myself in the other person's shoes, learn their perspective. Even geniuses can be idiots at times. Example: your brother."

Mycroft chuckled again. "Fair point," he murmured, "You are the one to whom I do not give enough credit."

"I try." she smirked, tossing her hair over one shoulder.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and quirked his eyebrow. "So, Dr. Phil, how do I proceed with telling him these things? You know for a fact that it is quite difficult for me, and that most people do not react well to news of this nature."

"Don't make it about the past is all I can say. Speak of the past, but tell him the way you are feeling now. The past is over, but the present is what is tormenting you." Anthea opened the pill bottle and shook two of the pills into her delicate hand, holding it out to Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed and nodded, taking the two pills from her hand and dry-swallowing them. "I'm afraid that it would create too much awkwardness in our relationship, that he would begin to walk on eggshells around me, and that is the one thing I despise even over being disrespected; being pitied."

"I'm aware of your aversion to sympathy. But you have to accept the fact that sometimes, people are going to have emotional reactions to your stories. They are quite powerful, and, to be brutally honest, sad. But, you overcame them (mostly) and you're stronger because of it. I don't want to sound like one of those useless 'self-help'," she articulated her point with air quotes, "books, but honestly, your past doesn't define you, it's what you choose to do with the rest of your life that matters."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but nodded in agreement. "You're right. Geniuses can be idiots," he admitted, sighing softly. "It's not a good feeling, feeling vulnerable."

"Gee, you really are a genius," Anthea deadpanned. "But really; being vulnerable is bloody scary, and it isn't something most people jump at the chance to do. But, in some cases, vulnerability is necessary."

The ginger nodded again, then reached up to pat Anthea's cheek. "What would I do without you?" he chuckled.

"Probably divide your time between work and being a crazy cat lady." she teased, standing and snatching up her purse.

"I would not be a crazy cat lady; in case you haven't noticed, I do not possess cats, mental illness, or female genitalia."

"Yes you would, admit it. I had to talk you out of bringing those kittens home from our last trip to Russia."

"And I loathe you to this day for it. I happen to be fond of cats. They're quiet, intelligent, and graceful. Unlike you."

"Says the man who could trip over a cordless phone."

"Oh get out," Mycroft tried to sneer, but a smile broke through instead. Anthea had always been able to pull him out of his self-pity, and he appreciated the woman more than he thought she realized.

"Shall I send him in?"

"Of course."


	3. Chapter 3

Greg heard laughter coming from inside Mycroft's office, and he started, tearing his attention away from the magazine he had been holding; he hadn't known Mycroft to ever laugh that hard, especially not at work. Was Anthea the only one in there, or did he have some delegate from a country Greg couldn't pronounce? If it was a delegate, Greg suspected they were probably joking about foreign policy, something that was completely lost on the DI. It wasn't his fault, really; he just failed to see the humour in making jokes about policies he didn't understand to begin with.

The door opened with a loud bang, interrupting his thoughts, and Greg practically jumped three feet in the air. "Christ!"

"Inspector?"

Anthea's voice echoed off the walls of the small room, and Greg stared at her in shock. "Jesus, you scared me. What is it?" 

"My apologies, sir. He will see you now."

"Oh...thanks." Greg murmured, feeling a bit like he was about to go into a dentist's office, what with Anthea's tone of voice and professional manner. He stood up from the chair and stretched, then walked into Mycroft's office and leaned against the doorframe. "Hey," he murmured, smiling at the government official and glancing around the room. 

"Heard you laughing. Didn't think Anthea was all that funny." he remarked, striding over to Mycroft's desk and reaching out to brush a stray curl behind his ear.He'd been running his fingers through his hair, which he usually did when he was nervous or anxious. Greg gave himself a mental pat on the back for figuring out this little detail about Mycroft all on his own. Hanging around with the Holmes boys was beginning to rub off on him. 

"She isn't. She's just trying to be Dr. Phil again."

Greg gave a weak smile, completely confused; he had never understood Mycroft and Anthea's relationship, and he didn't really try to. They had their odd in-jokes, little gestures and ways of communicating, and Mycroft always seemed to blush whenever Anthea brought up Germany (he'd have to do some digging on that). He had always thought that they seemed to be more than just business associates, or even friends. The thought made him annoyed, jealous and a little angry; he knew it was irrational, as Mycroft was allowed to have as many sexual partners as he pleased, at least before he had become involved with Greg, but something about their relationship dynamic made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Not that he didn't like Anthea, but he thought the woman was a bit too close to his lover, at least for his liking. He was beginning to wonder if perhaps they _had_ been involved before.

 _"Or involved now."_ his subconscious mocked him.

He shook his head, ridding himself of the unpleasant thought that left a bad taste in his mouth and a knot in the pit of his stomach. He knew Mycroft would never do that to him. Besides, he was gay...right? It suddenly occurred to him that he had never actually asked his lover about his sexuality. Come to think of it, they hadn't discussed any of his previous partners. Which wasn't exactly strange in itself, he didn't want to make Mycroft feel like he was interrogating him, but he hadn't ever heard so much as a mention of any of Mycroft's previous partners. He knew his lover had had other partners, but he hadn't ever mentioned them. Greg found that more than a little strange, but it never seemed to really matter.

"Gregory?"

"So ah...yeah." Greg shook his head and managed to focus his attention on his lover, forcing a smile. "You up for lunch? I found a little cafe down the street that's just posh enough for your taste."

Mycroft chuckled, though a little of his anxiety returned upon seeing his lover's forced smile, the little insecure voice at the back of his mind whispering in his ear.

 _"Ooh, look at that smile. You know that look."_ his inner voice mocked him, _"You know what that look means. You know what he'll say. 'Oh, I'm sorry Mycroft, but this just isn't going to work out. It isn't you, it's me...oh wait, it is you. You're fat, and ugly, and quite boring, and no one will ever love you'. You're so pathetic, Mycroft. So bloody pathetic, you make me sick. Just look at you; you're fat, you smoke, you only drink rich, expensive, posh wine, and you couldn't even keep your own baby brother out of drugs. So sad."_

Mycroft swallowed, shoving the voice down and managing a small smile for his lover. "That sounds lovely. I'll get my coat. Meet me outside?"

"Sure."

The DI turned and left, chewing his lip slightly, his brow furrowed. He gave a nod to Anthea, and was about to close the door to her office when he noticed her standing up and going into Mycroft's office, a soft, "Everything alright, Mycroft?" leaving her glossy pink lips.

Greg froze; in all the time he had known Anthea, never once had he heard her call Mycroft by his first name, not even when she had jumped in front of a gunman to save his life (she hadn't been hurt, thank god, but she had only said 'get back, Sir!'). He swallowed and crept towards the door, which had been left open just a crack by the attractive brunette. He pressed his ear against the door and listened, hearing snippets of their conversation. Anthea's voice, filled with concern and what sounded like...affection?...was the first thing he heard.

"You can't hide this from him forever, you know. He'll see through you eventually."

"He's not observant enough."

"You should tell him now, before it gets out of hand."

"He'd leave me."

"You don't know that."

"I do. Wouldn't you?"

"No."

"Then you're the exception to a usually strict rule, Anthea."

"Mycroft, he isn't stupid. He'll figure it out eventually." There was that pesky first-name business again. Greg strained to hear the rest of the conversation.

"..And I'll deal with it then."

"Isn't it possible that you're just afraid of how he'll react? He won't leave you, you know. He loves you."

"Anthea, stop."

"I mean it, Mycroft. You need to tell him now, otherwise you'll wind up hurting him."

"I'll hurt him either way if I keep this up."

"You'd hurt him more by continuing to lie."

"..."

"Please, for your sake as well as his, tell him. It's killing you, I can see it in your eyes."

"I...I'll tell him eventually. Not now."

"Mycroft, I can't keep covering up for you! He'll start asking questions, and what then?"

"I do what I'm best at. Lie."

"You're a terrible liar, at least to the people you care about."

"I am not."

"You are. You can't lie to me to save your life, so you certainly wouldn't be able to lie to Greg."

"...If I don't tell him, will you?"

"No. It needs to come from you, Mycroft."

"I can't tell him. It would destroy him."

"It wouldn't. He would be hurt, yes, but he is a grown man. He'll get over it."

"...alright."

Greg stumbled back from the door, feeling sick; it couldn't be true, Mycroft wouldn't do that to him...would he?

Suddenly it all made perfect sense. The late nights, the avoidance, the dancing around questions with the excuse of his schedule being 'classified'; Mycroft was having an affair. With _Anthea_ no less.

The DI swallowed hard, bile rising in his throat. He turned on his heel and bolted from the office, his entire body trembling with held-back anger, betrayal, and most of all, hurt.

He shoved past one of Mycroft's lackeys, pushed through the door and stepped outside, the cold winter air striking him like a slap in the face. He stalked towards his police cruiser and pulled open the door, sliding into the driver's seat. He pulled out his keys and tried to place them in the ignition, but his hands were shaking much too hard. He swore loudly and let out a pained sigh, dropping his head into his hands. He couldn't believe that Mycroft would do this to him. This, plus the added stress of having to deal with Sherlock lately pushed him over the edge. He was angry, and frustrated, and couldn't think straight.

He forced his hands to still and shoved the key in the ignition, turning it and tearing away from the curb. His face was a mask as he drove away from the building, not noticing a bewildered Mycroft standing in front of the building, staring after him, mouth agape.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft took another sip of his tea, (Earl Grey, his favourite) and sat back in the comfortable armchair in his sitting room, chewing his lip. The poor flesh was already rubbed raw, cut in some places, and bleeding a little, but still he continued to bite and scrape his teeth along it; a nervous habit he had picked up in his childhood that he had never quite managed to break. He reached up to absentmindedly tug at one of his curls, twirling it over and over in his fingers. Several strands of ginger hair came off in his hand, falling to the ground next to the chair.

It was now after midnight, well after the normal time that Greg would come home from work (well, not exactly home, yet, but he did spend most nights at Mycroft's flat), or even when he was out with his mates. Mycroft had deduced that his partner had most likely heard and misinterpreted the conversation between himself and Anthea, and all that was needed was the simple explanation that he had been hiding his medical issues from the DI. Mycroft felt that telling him about every one of his issues would be a bit too much for one night. Or a lifetime, to be honest; not many people could handle hearing about every one of Mycroft's many, many horror stories of his childhood, or had the mental capacity to understand every one of his insecurities and irrational fears.

The government official set his cup down on the coffee table, reaching up to rub his eyes. One of the lightbulbs above his head flickered and went out, and he sighed; he'd have to have his staff take a look at the lights in the morning. He looked around his flat, smiling softly at the nicely-decorated room. Lovely navy blue furniture, white walls, and a large, mahogany grandfather clock in the corner near the fireplace. It was comfortable, and calming, there was no denying that. He had spent many nights sitting in this room, unwinding from long, harrowing days at the office. The only piece that didn't fit in with the rest of his furniture was the armchair he was currently sitting in. The backstory on the chair was, admittedly, boring, but also heartwarming, even to the Iceman.

Gregory had owned the chair upwards of ten years, and he always claimed there was sentimental value in the old, tattered, leather recliner. It was the chair where he had first held his daughter (whom Mycroft had yet to meet, but he understood Gregory's hesitancy, especially since Mycroft was, in his own words, 'severely damaged in every way known to man'), where he had signed his divorce papers, and where he and Mycroft had first kissed. The ginger smiled fondly at that memory, his chest filling with that warm, content feeling that couldn't _possibly_ be anything but love. He remembered the day Gregory had insisted they move the chair into Mycroft's flat, since 'we practically live together anyway'. Mycroft remembered feeling excited, happy, and quite a bit nervous;he'd never actually lived with any of his partners before. Most of his relationships hadn't gotten that far. A bit of that excited feeling came back, and he smiled; the feeling was quickly squashed, however, by his growing anxiety and dread at having to face his lover once he got home from wherever he had gone. Mycroft had suspected a pub or something of the sort, but one could never be sure with the detective inspector.

He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, trying to imagine something that made him happy, something comforting; Anthea had taught him that trick, and he was grateful for it, as it helped him immensely when he was on the verge of an anxiety attack. Since he never wanted any of his problems to come to light, he had never gone to a proper therapist to talk about his childhood abuse. Instead, he spoke with Anthea, who had studied psychiatry before leaving grad school to work for the government with the promise of a high-paying job and brilliant benefits. Sometimes he wondered what life might have been like if Anthea had turned down said job offer, and he shuddered at the thought. The woman had practically been his therapist for years, dealing with his outbursts, anxiety attacks, and helping him to overcome at least a few of the irrational fears still ingrained deep in his psyche. It was a wonder he hadn't driven the woman mad by now, he mused. Anthea had the patience of a saint and the emotional and mental strength of more than ten people, and he loved her for it.

Love. What an odd word used to describe his relationship with his assistant. He didn't love her in a romantic sense, not at all, and nor did she love him that way, thank god. He suspected that the love he held for Anthea was based in pure gratitude and trust, something he had not been able to do for many years, even after the abuse had ended. He still didn't completely trust Gregory, and he loved the man with every fiber of his being. _"It's their fault,"_ he thought bitterly, _"They destroyed my ability to trust. Unbelievable. Well...I never actually trusted in the first place, but that's their fault too."_ He rested his head on the arm of the chair, thinking he would rest his tired eyes for a bit.

He didn't realize he had fallen asleep until he was awoken by a loud banging noise. He shot up, hand automatically flying to his hip for the gun he usually carried, but it wasn't there. He silently cursed himself for leaving it in the bedroom, but he didn't think he'd need it at this time of night. Instead, he reached for his phone and sent a quick text to Anthea, praying she was awake at this time of night. Who was he kidding, of course she was. In fact, if he hadn't seen her sleep with his own eyes on their plane ride to Germany, he would have assumed she didn't sleep. Which he knew was completely ridiculous, as lack of sleep for too long would drive one mad, but somewhere deep in his mind, he still wondered.

"Mycroft," came a slurring voice from the doorway to the flat, "What're you doin' here?"

It didn't take a Holmes mind to figure out that the detective inspector was drunk; no, not drunk. More like completely and utterly _bombed_

"Gregory?" Mycroft murmured, feeling the slight panic in his chest suddenly growing; his lover was drunk. Mycroft could not _stand_ to be around drunk people, or even the smell of whiskey or scotch, and by the looks of it, the DI had had a healthy dose of both. The ginger forced himself to calm, reminding himself that it was just Gregory, that his lover would never hurt him...

_"Da said that too, remember, Mycroft?"_ his inner voice began to mock him again. _"Daddy said he wouldn't hurt you, and look what he did? He destroyed you, Mycroft. He took your fragile little heart, and your body, and destroyed them without a second thought. What makes you think that this man is any different? You don't even trust him, and you shouldn't; look at him, he's just like your Da. Drunk, stupid, and most likely violent. Get out, Mycroft. Go on, go. Or would you rather stay here and get hit, just like Daddy used to do?"_

Mycroft swallowed hard, his eyes widening as the DI approached him, stumbling around the sofa and coffee table. He collapsed onto the navy blue sofa, looking up at Mycroft with glassy eyes. "Why'd you do it, Mycroft?" he slurred, spitting slightly, "Why'd you have'ta go and sleep with her?"

"Who, Anthea? I didn't sleep with her, Gregory." Mycroft tried his damndest to keep his voice from shaking, but it was no use.

"Yes you did, don't lie t' me, Mycroft," the silver-haired man managed to sit up and scoot closer to the side of the couch closest to Mycroft, and the government official's eyes widened; he couldn't think, he couldn't react, he could barely even breathe.

"I'm not lying, Gregory," he said softly, "Please, you're very drunk..."

"Don't tell me what I am, Iceman," the other man spat, "I know what you did."

Mycroft bit his lip, then winced as his teeth came in contact with the raw skin. That name....Iceman. His lover had actually called him Iceman. In the back of his mind, he knew that his lover (were they even lovers anymore?) hadn't meant it, but it stung. A deep, clenching pain spread throughout his chest, and he nodded slowly, backing up and standing. 

"Please, let me explain..."

"No, wait jus' a second," the other man commanded, struggling to stand. He took a shaky step towards Mycroft, clenching his jaw. "I trusted you, Iceman," he slurred, reaching up to place a heavy hand on Mycroft's shoulder, "But you betray...betrayed me,"

Mycroft's heart was beating faster than he could ever remember it having beaten before. "Gregory, please," he couldn't keep the fear from his voice, "Please...stop...please..."

The DI scoffed and leaned forward until their faces were inches apart, opening his mouth and letting his breath ghost over Mycroft's lips.

"You failed me, Mycroft. Failed us," he murmured, a lump in his throat, reaching up to thread his fingers through Mycroft's hair. He grabbed a fistful of the ginger curls and tugged Mycroft closer. "You failed." he whispered through gritted teeth; evidently, and Mycroft had hoped to never learn this, the DI became aggressive when drunk. Just perfect.

The DI turned and stalked out of the flat, slamming the door behind him with as much force as he could muster in his drunken state.

The hand in his hair and the sharp tug terrified him, but it was the word 'failure' that pushed Mycroft over the edge and into a full-blown, terrifying flashback.

He let out a high-pitched cry, a bright light flashing before his eyes as he heard the door slam. The world began to flash and spin around him, and he dropped to his knees, holding his hands over his ears, his eyes shut tight. He didn't know whether or not he was still crying out, but at this point, he didn't care.

Suddenly he was eight years old again, and he was no longer in his lover's flat. Everything was grey, and slow, and every shadow looked as if it were about to jump out at him. He forced his eyes open, forced himself to observe.

_"Act, don't react,"_ he reminded himself, the thought playing over and over in his mind like a record on a turntable. He took a slow breath and attempted to deduce his surroundings.

He seemed to be in the sitting room of the Holmes manor, but that was impossible...wasn't it? No, forget what was possible, this was what was happening. His eyes darted around, taking in the all-too-familiar sights of the room; the white sofa, the shag carpet, the chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the enormous fireplace...

Something in the corner caught his eye; it looked like a playmat, from what he could make of it. The terror rose in him as he realized that it was Sherlock's first playmat, and he could see his younger brother lying on it, reaching up to play with the mobile that had caught his attention. He heard the happy noises that thirteen-month-old Sherlock was making, and relaxed, but only for a moment. 

He remembered how each day, he had dashed home from school as fast as he could to make sure his parents hadn't done anything to Sherlock, and the relief he would feel upon seeing his brother on that playmat, unharmed and happy.

_"As long as he's okay..."_ he thought, before another figure caught his eyes.

He could feel the panic in his chest spreading throughout his body, and his hands began to shake as the figure approached him; He looked up at his father, but everything was blurry, as if he was looking through frosted glass. He could hear a voice speaking, presumably at him, but the words were low, distorted.

_"You're a failure."_

_"You disgust me."_

_"I wish you'd never been born."_

_"You're nothing more than a common, stupid, worthless child."_

_"I'm ashamed to call you my son."_

_"You've failed your family. You've brought shame to the Holmes name. You failed yourself, and your brother."_

_"You failed."_

Mycroft's eyes widened as he recalled this exact situation. It had been the day he had brought home the first test he had ever taken in which he earned less than an A+. His father had snatched it from his hands, his own hands shaking and sloppy from the alcohol he had been pouring down his throat the entire day. Mycroft recalled with growing horror that instead of beating Mycroft, as he usually did, he had taken his anger out on Sherlock, forcing the ginger boy to watch. Mycroft had watched in terror as the man picked up the small child and proceeded to beat him, the curly-haired-brunette screeching for his brother the entire time. Mycroft had spent the entirety of Sherlock's beating frozen to the spot, his knees on the floor, in tears, begging his father to stop, to hit him instead. But his father hadn't stopped. That incident spawned the first of many hospital trips for the young boy, all of which Mycroft still felt horribly guilty for, even decades later.

"Da, no," he whispered, his voice refusing to go any louder than a whisper, "Please, not again, no...."

He watched in horror as his father picked up the small child, and Sherlock cried out in surprise. The little boy, the poor, innocent little thing, reached out his arms, wanting a cuddle from his Da. "Da!" he squealed happily, a smile spreading across his delicate face.

Mycroft shut his eyes and clamped his hands over his ears, dreading what was to come. But he couldn't block out the sounds of Sherlock's screams, of his cries for his brother, his Mummy, anyone who would help him.

"Mycroft!"

That voice was different, that voice sounded like...

"MYCROFT!"

Mycroft's eyes shot open, and suddenly he was back in his own flat, his assistant kneeling next to him, a look of concern and even...fear, on her face. On instinct, he reached out to push her away. Anticipating Mycroft's move, Anthea grabbed his wrists and slammed them down on the hardwood floor so he wouldn't hit her, as he had done so before. Mycroft was much stronger than he looked, and she had had to make up excuses for the bruise on her cheek for weeks. The government official had felt horrible for striking her, but she knew he hadn't meant it, it had been instinctual.

"Mycroft," she murmured, pinning both his wrists down on either side of his head, "You texted me...what happened?"

The government official swallowed and bit is lip, wincing as his teeth came into contact with raw, bleeding skin. "Gregory..." he murmured, "He...he was here...drunk...."

Anthea's jaw clenched; the DI had unknowingly triggered a flashback to Mycroft's childhood. 

"It's okay," she murmured, staying calm for her boss's sake. "It's okay, you're safe. I won't let them do anything." 

Mycroft let out a shaky breath, then nodded, his heart slowing down to somewhere near his normal heartbeat. 

"Is he...he left." he said, a defeated tone in his voice, "He thought you and I were...it doesn't matter."

Anthea's eyes widened, and she silently cursed the DI for being so quick to judge her boss. 

"We'll get things sorted out tomorrow. For now, perhaps some sleep would do you some good."

Mycroft nodded, letting out a shaky breath.

"He...isn't coming back, is he?"

"Shh, I'm sure he will, once we set him straight...well, so to speak. For now, let's just...take this one step at a time, alright? You won't do him or yourself any good like this."

The ginger sighed, comforted a bit by Anthea's wisecrack, then nodded, allowing his assistant to pull him up from the floor, his entire body shaking. The brunette was much stronger than she looked, he had to admit. She hooked one of his arms over her shoulder and walked him into the bedroom, sending a quick text to one of her subordinates on the way.

_Boss won't be coming in tomorrow. Reschedule everything. I will handle his calls. Good night. -A_


	5. Chapter 5

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade woke up the next morning sprawled out on his couch, with no idea as to how he had gotten there. His head was pounding, his ears were ringing, and his mouth felt like dry cotton; he recognized it as a hangover only because he had endured so many of the same symptoms in the past as a result of his heavy drinking in his younger days. He groaned and covered his eyes with his arm, which took much more effort than he would have originally thought it to. His esophagus burned with what felt like a lifetime's worth of stomach acid, and he coughed loudly, then wiped his mouth, realizing with a growing sense of disgust that he had been drooling and...oh, Christ, he had fallen asleep in a pool of his own vomit.

"Fucking great," he moaned, rolling over onto his back. He immediately regretted the move, as sunlight flooded his eyes, blinding him momentarily. He let out another pathetic noise and covered his eyes with the arm that wasn't currently covered in bile. The headache moved into his eyes, and he squeezed them shut, trying to block out every last bit of light. His hands flew to his ears of their own accord, trying to block out every sound that was offending his sensitive eardrums. 

"The hell...?" he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to recall how he had gotten there; it wasn't as bad as it could have been, he figured. He'd woken up in stranger places. 

He focused his energy on his memory, and strained to remember what had happened. The last thing he remembered was being at a bar, then taking a taxi somewhere...for the life of him, he couldn't figure out where. He continued to think for several more minutes, scrubbing his hand over his chin and grimacing at the feeling of his previous day's meal dried on his stubble. After several minutes of groaning (and some gagging) he managed to sit up, dropping his aching head in his hands. Everything hurt; he wasn't as young as he used to be, and should probably stop drinking to forget his problems.

His problems. That was it. He remembered.

After discovering that Mycroft was cheating, he had driven to his favourite pub, ordered a drink, and watched footie, hoping to forget. He hadn't really paid attention to the score, it was more of a distraction than anything else, background noise for his thoughts. He remembered thinking of Mycroft, not believing he could actually do something like this, wallowing in his own self-pity, and drinking until he couldn't see straight. After that, everything was blurry. He did remember having his hand in someone's hair. Maybe he'd picked up some bloke at the bar, he didn't know. He didn't particularly care at this point; after all, he was no longer committed to anyone, he thought bitterly. The realization hit him that Mycroft, after everything they had been through together, didn't care. He truly was the Iceman, always had been, and the DI was a fool for believing otherwise.

He felt his stomach churn, and he jumped up, bolting for the loo. He dropped to his knees in front of the toilet bowl and retched, emptying what remained of his stomach contents into the porcelain bowl. He continued retching and gagging for several minutes, only sitting back when he was sure his gut was completely void of all its contents. He ignored the tears that were running down his cheeks, and leaned back against the bathtub, trying to keep himself from having a complete breakdown. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket, hearing an all-too-familiar text tone, and fumbled to get it out. He squinted at the brightness, then slowly opened his eyes as he was able to adjust to the light. 

_Gregory, I know what you think happened, but I can assure you that it is not what you think. May we please talk later? I'd like the chance to explain myself. -MH_

The DI felt a lump rise in his throat, and swallowed hard. Either Mycroft was telling the truth, and he was completely mistaken, or he was lying, and Greg would be a fool to believe him. He closed his eyes, struggling with whether or not it was a good idea to believe the government official. He knew Mycroft was an incredible liar, and that Anthea would never let the truth come to light if he was, in fact, lying. He realized with a growing dread that he could no longer trust Mycroft. He was beginning to wonder if he ever had. Swallowing again, he rubbed his eyes and began to type.

_I can't trust you. I'm sorry. I can't do this anymore. -GL_

His finger hovered over the button, and he debated with himself whether or not it was a good idea to hit send. He sat staring at the message for a long while, steeled his nerves, and hit send. After several minutes, he bit his lip and stood up, smacking his arm on the corner of the sink. He swore loudly, shaking the injured limb as he stripped, deciding that a hot shower was in order, then a trip to Mycroft's flat. Even a cheater deserved to be properly broken up with, he thought. And really, even if Mycroft was truly a heartless bastard (which he seemed to be) he still deserved a proper explanation.

***

Mycroft felt himself being pulled from the peaceful realm of sleep, and he groaned, rolling over and opening his eyes. Light streamed through his long eyelashes, and he sighed, stretching out his limbs. Judging by the sun's position in the sky, it was well past eleven o'clock. He sat up abruptly, wondering why his alarm hadn't gone off. He reached over to see if his lover was still next to him, but his arm hit the pillow. He glanced around the room for a moment, confused; then everything suddenly came back to him at once. The flashback, Greg's drinking, Anthea bringing him down from his anxiety attack, everything.

"Oh, god," he murmured rolling over onto his back.

"Unfortunately, no, just me." Anthea replied, leaning back in her chair and sighing. "You slept well, no outward signs of nightmares, which is an excellent improvement." Mycroft nodded, then stretched and got out of bed, slipping off his suitjacket and vest as he did so.

"You could have taken off this jacket, you know."

"I prefer to never see you undressed again. Need I mention Germany?"

Mycroft felt a heat rise in his cheeks. "Code of silence, Anthea." he warned, unbuckling his belt and starting on the top buttons of his wrinkled, white shirt.

"Unless you piss me off."

"You're fired."

"Good. I can finally write that tell-all book I've always wanted to.

"You're rehired."

"Damn."

"Oh, look at me, I'm Anthea, and I have to work for a living. Boo hoo."

"I hate you."

"You love me."

"I really don't. Personally, I think you're kind of a dick."

"Good to know. Go make some tea, will you?"

"Yes sir," she said in a mocking tone, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. She left the room, and Mycroft yawned and scratched his neck, ambling into the next room for a hot shower and a shave. He grimaced at the sight of himself in the mirror; stubble, mussed hair, and tired eyes, though that was to be expected. He stepped into the shower and turned on the faucet, letting the warm water cascade over his skin. He winced at the sharp pain that tore through his knee as he twisted around to get his shampoo. He bit his lip, waiting for the throbbing pain to subside before squirting a bit of it into his hand and massaging it into his hair.

He stepped out of the shower several minutes later, wrapping his robe around himself. He glanced at himself in the mirror, and decided against shaving, as he wasn't going out today anyway, and if, by some miracle, his lover did agree to see him, he wanted to appear as normal as possible for the DI. He pulled on a pair of khaki trousers and a polo shirt, pocketed his cell phone, and trod into the kitchen, where Anthea was pouring his tea. She handed him a steaming mug of it and leaned against the counter, her hair pulled back in a ponytail.

"Thank you, Anthea." he murmured, taking a sip of the tea, sweetened just to his liking. Anthea had learned his tea preferences very quickly after she'd been hired, to his immense satisfaction, as most of his assistants hadn't bothered to learn about his tastes. They were just there for the money, or the benefits; mostly both.

"You're thanking me for something? Who are you and what have you done with Mycroft?"

"I am your boss, and Mycroft Holmes is standing in front of you."

"A joke, _sir_." she said in the sickeningly sweet tone usually reserved for impatient diplomats.

"I know that. I'm not stupid," he muttered, walking into the sitting room and sitting down in front of the telly. He sat back and was silent for a long moment, then spoke.

"He...he isn't coming back, is he." he murmured, more of a statement than a question.

"Mycroft..." Anthea sighed and sat down next to her boss, a foot of space between them. "He'll come back. This is my fault, he most likely heard our conversation and interpreted it the wrong way. We'll straighten it out, and you two will be fine."

"I was unaware that you were a psychic."

"Not a psychic, I just have common sense." she replied, taking a large gulp of her tea. "He may still be pissed as hell that you lied to him all this time, but I did have an idea last night about how to prove we're not sleeping together, at least."

Mycroft shuddered. "No offense, but I am very glad we are not, as you put it, 'sleeping together'. Let's just agree that that would be both inappropriate and quite awkward," he took another sip of his tea, which had cooled considerably, and set the cup down on his coffee table, on a coaster. "And what would we have to do to prove that we are not having sex?"

"The cameras."

Mycroft nearly choked on his own saliva; of course. The cameras. He had security cameras everywhere. In his flat, everywhere around his office, even in Anthea's flat, at her request. 

"That...wait, but what if he suspects we've gone somewhere else?"

"CCTV cameras."

"That is brilliant!"

He turned and pulled Anthea in, giving her a completely uncharacteristic embrace and a peck on the corner of her mouth. "You're simply brilliant," he said solemnly, about to demand that she take the secret of his affectionate display to her grave, when his phone buzzed.

"Hold that thought," he muttered, fumbling to get his phone. He pulled it out and unlocked the screen, glancing at the number. He froze; it was Greg. He read through the message, and his face fell, his heart dropping into his stomach.

"What is it?" Anthea murmured, leaning over to look at Mycroft's phone. "Oh."

Mycroft was about to reply when another text tone sounded from his phone. He swallowed and looked down with a growing dread.

_You bastard. I knew it. -GL_

***

The DI stormed away from Mycroft's sidewalk, anger and hurt tearing at his chest. He was right, he had been right all along. He couldn't believe that Mycroft had _kissed_ her. That one glance through Mycroft's window had told him everything he needed to know. He kicked himself for not recognizing the signs sooner; after all, he'd been cheated on before, so he should have recognized it. It hurt, terribly, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

Three hours later, his phone rang; Mycroft's number. He hit ignore and went back to watching the game and drinking the good scotch he kept in his liquor cabinet.

Every day for a week, his phone would ring four times; 6:00 a.m, 12:00 p.m, 3:00 p.m, and 9:00 p.m. It was always the same number, and the same ringtone, the ringtone he had picked out for Mycroft; Umbrella. It used to be one of his guilty pleasure songs, but now he dreaded hearing it. He hit ignore every time, never once answering the phone.

On the eighth day, the calls stopped coming.


	6. Chapter 6

After a week of trying to contact his lover, Mycroft finally stopped calling him; obviously, it wasn't getting him anywhere, and he would have to try a different tactic. Soon, preferably, as he had spent the entire week in somewhat of a dreamlike state, mindlessly signing papers and attending meetings during the day, and spending his nights either consumed by terror from recurring nightmares, or awake in front of the telly, dozing in ten or twenty minute intervals so as not to fall into REM sleep, therefore bypassing the nightmares altogether. He was exhausted, yes, constantly, but it was better than waking up shouting, soaked in a cold sweat and his own terrified tears. He had experienced several flashbacks, all horrid, haunting reminders of his childhood, and they were becoming more and more frequent as the days passed. Panic attacks were a regular occurrence as well, usually happening at work or in some other usually inconvenient place. Anthea had been able to cover for him, mostly, citing that he was overworked, but the diplomats from America had seen right through him, and seemed to think it amusing that the Iceman had been reduced to a panicked, exhausted, shell of a man. Needless to say, an agreement about the proper course to take to reform America's massive debt had not been reached.

Anthea had been of some help, taking on some of Mycroft's workload for the week. After years of working for him, she could perfectly mimic both his handwriting and writing tone, allowing her to write and sign papers for the government official, without the recipients of said papers being any the wiser. Mycroft cringed every time someone congratulated him for avoiding a war with Syria, because it hadn't been his hand that had signed nor written the treaty; it had been Anthea. He had skimmed over it, yes, changing a few things and fixing a punctuation error or two, but ultimately, Anthea had saved the country from war. Their 'code of silence' on these matters applied in public, but Mycroft suspected that Anthea enjoyed using things like this to torture him. The one (well, one of many) good thing about having Anthea around was that it gave him someone to talk to, a sense of normalcy. 

Their banter hadn't stopped, she still poked fun at him sometimes, and he still mock-fired her every day when she annoyed him. He knew she was doing it on purpose, (Anthea did everything on purpose, but that was beside the point) and she was making an effort to stay normal for his sake as well as her own, because if Mycroft had been left to his own devices during this time, he wouldn't have known what to do with himself. Normally he had been the one to break things off if he was dissatisfied with his relationship, not the other way around. Actually, he was unsure if things had actually been broken off, as Gregory wouldn't return his calls, texts, or emails. Anthea had referred to the DI's behaviour as being both childish and stupid, and for once, Mycroft agreed that something about his precious DI was not satisfactory.

On the eighth day, after getting no response at six that morning, Mycroft had finally had enough. "Hold all my calls, and give all my appointments my sincerest apologies for having to postpone our meetings." he barked at Anthea, standing up from his desk and snatching up his umbrella.

"Yes sir." she replied, not looking up from her Blackberry. She knew better than to get in Mycroft's way (past experiences had taught her that it was a terrible idea to try to calm down an angry, determined Holmes) and kept silent as the ginger threw open the door and left, quietly ticking away at her cell phone, sending apologetic and contrite emails to every person Mycroft had a meeting with that day. She stood up a moment later and followed him, giving her subordinates the job that Mycroft had just given her.

She kept as close to the ginger as she dared, careful not to draw too much attention to herself. Mycroft noticed her, of course, and her presence just aggravated him more. "You do realize that I'm not as stupid as you think, correct?" he snarked as he waved over one of his drivers, "I didn't invite you here for a reason."

"With all due respect, _Sir_ , you need me here. I have everything you need in case there is another incident." she muttered, "Wouldn't want something to happen in front of Greg, would we?"

Mycroft made a face, then tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for the driver to pull up in front of them.

"If you make that face too long, it'll stick like that." Anthea said, still not looking up from her phone.

Mycroft turned his head and raised his eyebrows, giving her a slightly incredulous look; some days he wondered if the woman wasn't just a bit psychic. "Physically impossible," he replied, his irritation ebbing a bit, "The facial muscles will always be movable, unless in the case of a paralyzing event."

"Your genius never fails to amaze me."

"You aren't making this easier."

"I'm not making _what_ any easier?"

Mycroft sighed, reaching up to rub his eyes; he was completely exhausted, and thought about having a quick nap in the car, but decided against it, as he needed to be at his peak for the conversation he was about to have.

"Mycroft." Anthea shut off her phone and shoved it in her handbag. "What are you going to do?" she asked as the driver stepped out and opened the door. She eyed the man suspiciously; she wasn't familiar with him, but then again, they had just purged the previous staff and hired new workers. Standard procedure for Mycroft's offices, considering that several moles had been found in his staff before. Anthea had been relentlessly questioned and interrogated, to the point where she questioned whether or not she really wanted the job. But once she had finally spoken with the elusive Mycroft Holmes, it had all been forgotten. She remembered being terribly impressed by his brilliance, but not as impressed as she was by his ability to be ice-cold one minute (thus earning him the nickname 'Iceman') and one of the warmest people on Earth the next. It was all an act, of course, but for an act, it was bloody incredible, at least to the young Anthea.

"Mycroft." she repeated, exasperated by the ginger man's silence.

The government official lifted his head and raised his eyebrow, sliding into the car, his expensive trousers gliding silently along the leather upholstery. "I am about to have a conversation with Gregory, a proper one; he refuses to return any of my calls, texts, or emails. I must hear it from his lips where we stand. I gave him time enough to cool down and think logically, but evidently he doesn't want to believe anything but what he thinks he saw and heard. So, I must either set him straight (so to speak), or hear from his own lips that our relationship has been terminated."

"Only you could make something as emotional as a breakup sound like an essay." she muttered, attempting to buckle her seatbelt. It wouldn't click into place, no matter what she did, so she finally gave up and let it slide back into its compartment, then ordered the driver to take the longest route to the Yard so as to give her and Mycroft some time to talk.

Mycroft glared at his assistant. "You could be a little more supportive, you realize."

"I'm not here to kiss your arse, Mycroft. I'm here to make sure the country stays on track, which means I have to make sure _you_ stay on track. You may constantly worry about your brother, but I'll be damned, I constantly worry about you."

"Why would you worry about me?" the government official asked, slightly confused (a rare occurrence indeed). 

Anthea tilted her head, raising her eyebrow in a perfect imitation of the government official's perpetual quizzical expression.

"Because not only am I your assistant, I'm also your therapist, basically your mother, and, I should like to think, your friend."

The ginger was taken aback for a moment, then turned his head to stare out the window. "I don't have friends," he muttered, "You know that."

"Well, I wasn't aware that I didn't exist. Explains the lack of molecular structure in my body."

The man chuckled at the joke. "A physics pun? Oh Anthea, if only you weren't a woman."

"The answer will forever be no."

"I'm attractive enough, you'd be lucky to have me."

Anthea gave a small smile, happy that the man was finally beginning to appreciate his appearance, if only slightly. "True," she replied, "But it would be weird."

"Correct on that front. Let's never revisit the Germany incident."

The brunette laughed slightly, turning to look out the window.

"Are you two comfortable?" the driver murmured, adjusting the review mirror so the pair could see his face. Well, what they could, considering it was half-obscured in shadow.

Anthea froze; she had heard every voice of every driver they had recently hired. She only knew three of them by name, but she knew that not one of them had a Russian accent. She reached for her gun, but the man abruptly slammed on the brakes, jolting her forward so her face slammed against the hard back of the seat. Mycroft was sent flying as well, his left forearm hitting the door with enough force to cause him to cry out in pain.

The brunette woman scrambled to get her gun, which had been jolted from her hand and pushed under the seat, but the driver was too fast. He was already opening the car door nearest to Anthea, grabbing a fistful of her soft brown hair and dragging her out, snatching up the gun before Mycroft could get to it, then cracking the government official in the jaw with the barrel. The ginger fell back, stunned, feeling the pain radiating through his entire skull. 

Anthea reached up and tried to drive her thumb into his eye, still struggling violently against his grip on her hair, but he grabbed her wrist and dug his nails into her forearm, releasing her hair to reach for something in his pocket. Still struggling, Anthea managed to drive her fist into the man's ribs, causing him to let out a grunt of surprise, releasing his grip on her hair. She rolled away from him and tried to take the gun from his hand, but he drew his arm back and struck the back of her head with the butt of the gun. She fell to the ground, unconscious, her head bleeding profusely.

Mycroft turned and tried to open the door, ignoring the pain in his arm; it was no use, the door had been welded shut. He had been so _stupid_ , how had he not noticed that the door had been tampered with?!

Biting his lip, he steeled his nerves and turned to face the driver, who was now leaning in through the door, his mouth dripping with blood. Mycroft took a breath, drew back his legs and slammed both his expensive shoes into the man's chest, propelling him backwards. The dark-haired man landed on his back with a thump, and Mycroft darted out after him, straddling him and grabbing the gun in his hand, trying to wrestle it away from his attacker. The driver reached up to grab Mycroft's short hair, pulling him down and rolling on top of him. He kept his hold on the gun, his other hand on Mycroft's throat. He squeezed the government official's windpipe, and Mycroft's hands flew up to his neck, his face turning red. He tugged frantically at the other man's hands, trying to pull them away so he could breathe, but his grip was too strong.

The raven-haired driver reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a small piercing gun, and placed it directly behind Mycroft's earlobe. He clicked the trigger, sending a needle full of Propofol into Mycroft's veins. The ginger stopped struggling after a moment, his eyelids falling closed. The last thing he heard was the driver speaking, presumably into his cell phone.

"Targets acquired and ready for transport."


	7. Chapter 7

"Wake up."

Mycroft swallowed, the deep, thick-accented voice rolling around in his skull. He wasn't asleep, nor was he quite awake; he had felt this way numerous times before, mostly when Anthea had to drug him to keep him from harming himself (or her, for that matter), but it was different somehow. His limbs felt heavy, as if they were filled with lead pellets, like the ones used Sherlock had used so often in his science projects as a child. The ginger didn't want to open his eyes; this was the first relatively peaceful sleep he'd had in a long time; it felt like years since he had slept without a nightmare, though it couldn't have been more than a week. Wait...could it? How long had he been asleep? He didn't know, he realized.

Vaguely, he wondered if Anthea had drugged his morning tea, and he was now asleep, at his desk, drooling on one of the many treaties or legal documents he was required to sign daily. She _would_ do something like that, drug him without telling him. Hell, she had, numerous times, though most were for his own benefit. He did remember one instance in which she had drugged him purely for being overly-smarmy and irritating on a long flight. He'd been annoyed, but they had laughed about it; he liked that side of Anthea, the playful side. Most saw her as just his Girl Friday (which he despised with the passion of a thousand flaming suns) but she was so much more than that. She'd been the one who found out about Sherlock being in rehab, as Mycroft had been immensely busy with a missile crisis at the time. He remembered her coming into his office (she'd only been working for him four months) and informing him that his younger brother had been arrested and placed in a treatment facility for cocaine abuse. Mycroft had ensured that the arrest was erased from Sherlock's record, and transferred him to a much nicer, cleaner rehabilitation centre. The minute he was brought out of his room, he had taken one look at Mycroft and spit out all the hatred and cruel words his impaired tongue could muster. 

Mycroft had lied to himself, telling himself that Sherlock didn't mean it, it was the drugs; but deep down he knew his brother had most likely been carefully saving every one of those words for him in the two decades past. He'd been able to keep a straight face as they took his brother away, and had stalked out to his car as soon as he was able. Anthea had wordlessly slid in next to him, and placed a hand on his knee, asking if he was alright. He had swallowed, waved his hand dismissively, and lied to her, saying that he was fine, just tired. She hadn't believed him, obviously, and had murmured something like "He still loves you, sir." Mycroft had turned to look at her, and, seeing her face filled with concern and actual _care_ had broken him. He had hardly ever seen anyone with that look before, least of all directed at him. He had sobbed into her suitjacket like a child afraid of a thunderstorm, the concealer that he so meticulously used on his freckles staining the black collar. It was the first time Anthea had seen him cry. The first time anyone had, save for Sherlock and his parents. He had apologized profusely afterwards, claiming that he was under a mountain of stress along with Sherlock's issues, and that his body was simply reacting to the stress the only way it knew how. She had nodded, and smiled politely; Mycroft had originally hated that smile, but at that moment, it had been the most comforting thing in the world.

His thoughts and memories were interrupted by more voices, some speaking in a language he didn't know, and others murmuring in his native tongue, though he couldn't quite make out what they were saying. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes a crack, seeing nothing but darkness, then closed them again, the blissful pull of dreamless sleep calling him back.

"I said wake up!"

A sudden slap in the face woke Mycroft up fully, and he opened his eyes, trying to bring his hands up to rub at his injured and slightly bleeding cheek. He was both shocked and distressed to find that they had been bound behind his back, and his feet were tied to the legs of a rather uncomfortable wooden chair. His neck was stiff, and oh, how his jaw ached. He stared up at the figure in front of him, eyes wide with shock. He quickly steeled himself, making his face the mask of arrogance and indifference that he usually wore. Show no fear, he reminded himself. 

"Who are you?" he croaked, his throat dry and sore from when he had been choked.

That question earned him another slap across the face. "I'm asking the questions, you fucking smarmy bastard." the man growled, gripping Mycroft's chin and forcing their eyes to meet. The man's eyes were a bright, icy blue, and a scar ran from the corner of his mouth down to his chin.

"Then ask them." Mycroft snapped back, asserting his dominance over the situation, even though he was shaking inside. Where was Anthea? And Greg? God, were they even alive?

He forced the thoughts from his mind, needing to keep a clear head.

The man scowled, then released Mycroft's chin. "You're Mycroft Holmes?"

"Who wants to know?"

The man reached forward and gripped Mycroft's neck, squeezing slightly. "I'm asking the questions," he growled, "Are you Mycroft Holmes?"

Mycroft glared at the man, showing no fear, though the pressure on his windpipe was really beginning to hurt. "I am." he rasped, "And I would advise you to tell me why you are holding my assistant and I captive, as it doesn't do you much good to anger the British Government."

The blonde man snarled, removing his hand and reaching out to grab a fistful of Mycroft's mussed hair, bringing their faces close together. "You don't fucking scare me," he whispered, his hot breath blowing in Mycroft's face. "Consider this a vendetta," he growled through gritted teeth, "For my brother. You might remember him. A man named Alexei. Alexei Burgone." 

Mycroft's heart stopped; he had known for a long time that this day was coming.

***

Alexei Burgone had been one of the most insane and dangerous men Mycroft had ever had the displeasure to come across when he was just starting out in politics. The young, brilliant and tragically complicated Alexei was hell-bent on taking over every government, one by one, until he had a network of armed and dangerous countries poised to do his bidding, to threaten the civilized world. He had already managed to coerce several countries into handing over the reins to their political power, wooing them with promises of money and favouritism once his plan was implemented and successful. Once the first country fell, the others toppled like dominoes perched on a ledge, falling one by one to his genius.

Mycroft had been brought in after all the other governments had run out of ideas. They had been at their wits' end, running around like the metaphorical chickens with their heads cut off. Mycroft was already a rising star in the political world, but this was the crisis that kick-started his career. The young man of only twenty-six had sat down with several hundred delegates (most old enough to be his father) and spoken of his plan to capture Alexei and bring his organization down. Mycroft had done a bit of digging (computer-hacking skills came in quite handy in politics, he had noticed) and found that Alexei's ex-girlfriend, Nadia, had been stabbed to death in her bathtub two years previous. Mycroft was sure that Alexei had done it, and after a lengthy bit of investigation, his theory had been proven correct, as Alexei's DNA was found on the rim of the tub at the scene, but no one had bothered to test the skin sample. Mycroft suspected that several of the officers had been Alexei's henchmen, but he was never able to prove it, and that was something that still haunted him. He hated the idea that Alexei's men were still out there, wreaking havoc on the world, or just sitting around plotting their next move. Mycroft hated to leave loose ends lying around, which is what made him such a good politician. He always made sure to cover his own tracks, and the tracks of anyone who could possibly be linked to him. Sherlock had the ability to deduce a man's life by looking at him; Mycroft could see a hundred steps ahead, every possible outcome of a situation before he made one move. He was always able to formulate a plan of escape for every single instance, and it made him the most dangerous man in the world at times. Most people didn't see even two steps ahead; Mycroft saw thousands of different outcomes, all at once.

They had finally caught him, _finally_ , but there was a problem; they couldn't get any other information out of him. Mycroft was sent in to get the final pieces of information that they needed to bring down his web. He remembered with growing horror the things he had done to the man, desperate to get ahead in his chosen field. 

He had tortured Alexei, wanting to get as much information out of him as was humanly possible. He remembered with a sick feeling in his stomach that he had heated a knife with a blowtorch, and had threatened to slice off the fingers on Alexei's left hand one by one if he didn't talk. Alexei had responded with an enthusiastic 'Fuck you', and thus, his fingers were sliced off, his howls swallowed up by the cloth covering every available surface in the cell. Mycroft had thrown up in the toilet afterwards, his shaking hands still covered in blood. "He's a criminal," he had had to remind himself, "A killer. Nothing more than scum, a killer. Him or us." It helped, but not by much. The ginger was at least able to stomach the idea of torture after that, and push Alexei's status as a human being far down, instead thinking of him as nothing more than a sack of bones, flesh, and connective tissue.

The man had been resilient, but after three days of sensory deprivation and psychological torture (along with physical torture that went against the Geneva Convention), Alexei had actually _begged_ him for mercy, which he of course could not show, otherwise he would be seen as weak. He had pulled a terrifying stunt with a hot knife, threatening to cut the eyes out of the criminal if he didn't talk. Even criminals felt fear, and Alexei had spilled all the secrets of his organization, including names, dates, and monetary transactions.

Alexei had been thrown in a dark, damp jail cell after his ordeal was over, and told that he would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law for the murders of several government officials that he had both orchestrated and committed. Mycroft had been immensely proud of his ability to break the man, and it seemed that some of the older officials were very much impressed by his skills in psychological torture. Mycroft had lied and said he studied human psychology at uni; in reality, he was just mimicking what his father and mother had done to him as a child. It was a coping mechanism, his subconscious knew that, to abuse others the way his parents had abused him. It wasn't right, it wasn't even mildly acceptable, but that was the way it had to be. He would rather harm someone else than wind up going insane from his own demons eating him up inside.

There had been armed guards at the door, guns drawn. There was no way in or out, and cameras were constantly on Alexei to make sure he didn't try to escape. The plan was foolproof; they were going to hold Alexei until his wounds had healed (well, the ones that could, as one cannot regrow fingers). The one thing they didn't count on was Alexei hanging himself in his cell, the word 'vendetta' scrawled on the wall in blood. The guards had claimed that they heard nothing, and the ten minutes in which Alexei presumably committed suicide had been nothing but static on the camera. They had all suspected foul play, but the criminal was dead, and the organization being disbanded, so they really saw no point in prosecuting this case, as it would only bring out the skeletons in their own closets. Mycroft had known it was for the best, but the guilt still ate him alive for years afterward, causing many of his medical problems, most notably the acid reflux and issues with overeating. Eventually, he had been able to delete most of the more gruesome details, but now it was all coming back tenfold.

***

"Alexei Burgone." Mycroft repeated, staring up at the man. "He is dead. By his own hand, he's dead. Hanged himself in his cell."

"Wrong!" the man drew back his hand and slapped Mycroft across the face hard enough to make his lip bleed. Mycroft quickly stuck his tongue out and pressed it flat against his upper lip, trying to stop the river of blood that was trickling down on his suit.

"Stop hitting him. He won't tell you anything." came a female voice. It was groggy, and pained, but it was Anthea. 

"Anthea," Mycroft murmured, "Are you alright?" He noted the large gash on the back of her head, and her grogginess, and suspected that it was nothing more than a flesh wound, thank god.

"Shut up!" another slap across the face silenced the government official. 

"Stop _hitting_ him!" Anthea snarled, her dark eyes flashing, "He won't tell you anything. Neither of us will, so you can take your little vendetta and shove it up your-"

A sharp kick in the back interrupted her sentence, and she howled in pain, biting her cheek hard enough to draw blood.

"Anthea-" Another hard strike, this time in the form of a closed fist to the jaw silenced Mycroft, his entire body already screaming in pain.

"What do you want from me?!" he spat, opening and closing his jaw.

The man smiled darkly and leaned forward, pulling a knife from his pocket and flipping it open.

"A vendetta. Revenge," he whispered, and Anthea craned her neck to hear.

"What you did to my brother, I am going to do to you."


	8. Chapter 8

Greg Lestrade bit his lip and shut off his phone, his hand shaking. Mycroft was missing, he had been for over twenty-four hours. But he couldn't _do_ anything yet, and it frustrated him. He tried to distract himself, telling himself that the man was probably just off cavorting with Anthea, or lounging in his posh apartment. But something deep in the pit of his stomach told him that this wasn't the case, that something was actually wrong. His thoughts on Mycroft clouded his mind, making doing his job nearly impossible. He sat at his desk, mindlessly signing papers and staring at reports blankly, unable to process any of this information due to his constant worrying about the government official. He knew he shouldn't care as much as he did (Mycroft _was_ a cheater, after all, and Greg did hate that part of him), but he couldn't help it. He had (and still did, why was he lying to himself) love Mycroft, and was terrified that the government official was afraid, hurt, or even-

_"Dead?"_ the thought mocked him, _"He could very well be dead, you know. It really isn't a stretch, considering how many enemies he made over the years, the smarmy bastard. Perhaps he was short with one too many posh waiters, and they took it upon themselves to wrap their hands around his pretty little neck and crush the life out of him. Pity, really, but not unexpected."_

"Shut up," he muttered at the little niggling thought, "Mycroft wouldn't let himself get kidnapped or hurt, and he has Anthea. I'm not quite sure whether or not that woman has superpowers or not."

_"Well, considering he's probably dead, you should start making arrangements now. He always did like orchids, perhaps you could lay those on his casket. Assuming it will be a closed-casket, because whoever killed him likely royally fucked-up his face. Maybe they cut out that lying tongue of his, oh, wouldn't that be a sight? Mycroft Holmes, the British government, reduced to a mute, simply for pissing someone off. Well, if he's lucky, they probably killed him afterwards."_

"Shut UP!" he exclaimed, his voice taking on a hard edge.

"Sir...?"

Sally was standing in his doorway, a look of both concern and distress on her face. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." he shook his head, swallowing hard. "What do you want?"

"We're setting up a meeting to discuss Mycroft's--Mr. Holmes' disappearance. I came to see if you wanted to-"

Greg was up and out of his chair before she had even finished her sentence, pushing past her without so much as another word, shoving his hands in the pockets of the jacket he hadn't bothered to take off and briskly walking towards the conference room.

The room was abuzz with twenty different conversations, though all went quiet when the DI walked in. Greg glanced around and huffed; Sherlock wasn't there. Typical, this case wasn't interesting. Didn't matter that it was his own brother, no; the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't be bothered to get out of bed for anything less than a seven, and this was barely a four in Sherlock's book. Greg gritted his teeth and shook his head, clenching his hands into fists inside his pockets. Sherlock wouldn't be any help here anyway. It was a suspected abduction, not a murder.

_"You don't know that, yet."_ the little voice mocked him, _"He could be dead, and you don't know yet. Think about it; his mangled body, lying in a ditch somewhere, face beaten to a bloody pulp, his little whore next to him, probably still holding that goddamn Blackberry."_

Greg bit his cheek, then took a deep breath. He had to stay calm, for Mycroft's sake as well as everyone else there.

"Alright," he bellowed, his voice taking on the hard edge that most of the Yard hadn't ever heard before, "Here's what we're going to do."

***

"What are you going to do?" Mycroft's voice was both hoarse and a bit jumbled, from the repeated strikes and choking. He was afraid, of course, but he couldn't show that, not to his captors. Once one showed fear, they knew every single one of your weaknesses, and that was the most valuable thing you could give them.  
The man smirked evilly. "Wouldn't you like to know," he purred, turning away and pulling a switchblade from his pocket, opening and closing it in his hand, running the tip of it over his finger, allowing a few drops of blood to slide down his hand. 

"Tell me," Mycroft replied, sneering, "What's the point of all this? Your brother is dead, by his own hand no less. I may have been violent with him, yes, but it is not my fault he is dead. That falls on you, for not protecting your brother." Mycroft knew he was being a hypocrite, as he hadn't been able to take care of his own brother, but at this point, all he wanted was to get himself and Anthea out of this situation alive and relatively unharmed, by any means necessary.

The man turned around and growled, reaching forward to grip Mycroft's chin, squeezing right on the injured part of his jaw. Mycroft winced, then took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his nose. 

"You don't intimidate me," he whispered, "In fact, I find you amusing."

The blonde had had enough of Mycroft's taunts, and turned to bark orders at his subordinates in a language Mycroft assumed to be his native tongue, Russian. Mycroft silently cursed himself for having not learned Russian among the many languages he had studied over the years. He took another breath, less deep this time, and let it out, his heart pounding faster and faster as three men approached him, one of them with a scar across his cheek, presumably made by a very large knife. He swallowed again as the men took hold of his chair and began dragging it into another room.

"What are you doing with him-" A slap silenced the brunette , and she sank back in her chair, biting her lip. She scowled at the large man who had struck her, and he chuckled darkly. "Feisty little bitch, aren't you?"

"A bitch is a female dog. I'm a pissed-off woman. There's a big difference, you Neanderthal." she spat, a bit of blood dripping from the corner of her lip. "If you had an IQ higher than that of a fucking eggplant, you'd know."

Having had enough of Anthea's mouth, the man drew his knife and slashed her arm with a snarl, causing the brunette to shriek in pain. Blood poured down her thin arm in rivers, soaking her skirt and jacket in blood. "Fuck!" she bit her lip, trying to ignore the pain, her anger rising, along with fear.

"Anthea!" Mycroft struggled against the ropes that bound him, wanting to get to her. This earned him a swift kick in the ribs, knocking the wind out of him. He sat still, hunched over, breathing harshly, trying to fill his lungs again. While the government official was still, the men dragged the chair down the corridor. Mycroft's eyes were barely open, but his mind took in every detail of the hallway. 

_"Damp, cold, not a lot of lighting. Most likely a warehouse or abandoned medical facility. Noticing the faded sign on the wall, most likely a hospital, probably shut down due to financial reasons."_ he thought. He tried to remember if any hospitals in London had been shut down within the past five years.

_"There were two, and one had already been demolished, so by process of elimination, this is St. Mary's hospital."_ he recalled.

He took a deep breath and let it out, trying to calm himself; he knew where he was, and thereby, knew how to get out. He had only been to this hospital once, but he knew every corridor, every tile. He had a photographic memory, somewhat more developed than Sherlock's. He forced himself to relax, to think logically, but the force and speed with which he was being dragged through the hallway was alarming.

"Where are we going?" he asked quietly, looking up at his captors through half-lidded eyes.

"Shut up." one of them barked, tugging the chair (and, subsequently, the government official) into a small room. It was an operating room, Mycroft realized. It was unusually dark, only a small lightbulb in the corner casting any light on the entire room. Everything was cast in shadow, and it gave the room an eerie feeling. It was eerie either way, to be honest, but something about the room told Mycroft that something very bad was about to happen to him.

"W-What are you going to do?" he asked, his voice small. He cleared his throat and tried to straighten up in his chair, but his entire body ached, making it impossible for him to sit comfortably.

The blonde man smiled; it was a dark smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "The worst torture is not knowing," he said smoothly, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture, signaling for his henchmen to leave the room. "Have a nice stay, Mr. Holmes. I'm sure your pretty assistant will keep us entertained enough."

"Don't you _dare_ touch her!" Mycroft shouted, his anger and frustration coming out, "Don't touch her!"

"And how are you going to stop us?" the other man taunted, "How are you going to know what happens to her? After all, dead women tell no tales."

"You wouldn't _dare_." Mycroft spat, "I'll have you disemboweled if you so much as lay a finger on her. Let her go, she has nothing to do with this."

"But she's important to you. Since we couldn't get your precious Detective Inspector, we have to settle for your assistant. You see," the man laughed darkly, "The most dangerous man is one with nothing left to lose. Since we have something you do not wish to lose, we have control over you. Sound familiar?"

Mycroft was silent, his eye twitching with both stress and pure, unadulterated rage. His captor smirked at him, then turned off the lightbulb, immersing the entire room in darkness. "Enjoy your stay, Mr. Holmes. A few days of solitude will help clear your mind."

"What do you _want_?!" Mycroft cried, suddenly afraid of the darkness, having seen it all too often as a child when his father locked him in the basement, "Money, power, what?!"

"I want to see you suffer. And I want you to watch the country you worked so hard to build up crumble before your very eyes."

Mycroft felt as if he'd been slapped; of course it was about power. Money, power, and revenge, mankind's most powerful motivators. "You disgust me," he spat, "And a few days in the dark won't break me."

"No. But maybe a few days in the dark, with a bit of psychological torture thrown in might."

The blonde pulled out a remote and clicked a button, and Mycroft froze. A voice wafted through the OR, an all-too-familiar voice.

"You're a failure."

Mycroft's father's voice wafted through the room, his bitter tone assaulting Mycroft's ears, just the way it had when he was still a small child, afraid of the elder Holmes.

"You disgust me."

"Fat fucking moron."

"No..." Mycroft swallowed, "No, no, no!"

It couldn't be true.

"Enjoy your stay," the blonde laughed, stepping outside and shutting the door, immersing Mycroft in total darkness.

"No!" Mycroft screamed, "Please, no!"

His cries went unheard. Alexei's brother, Nikolas, laughed evilly the entire way back to the room that housed Anthea. Oh, he would have some fun with her.


	9. Chapter 9

"Failure."

The word cut through Mycroft's mind as easily as a hot knife slides through butter. He flinched as the word washed over him, its meaning digging itself further into his psyche.

"Idiot."

The ginger bit his lip; this particular audio was cut from one of his father's many speeches in front of Parliament, and that word had been directed at an American delegate. Though the word wasn't ever meant for him, he could feel his body's responses keying up. Every muscle tensed, his heart rate sped up, and he looked around wildly, trying to see at least a shape, a shadow, _something_ in the darkness that was slowly swallowing him up. But there was nothing, not so much as a pinpoint of light coming through a hole in the wall, or under the door. Mycroft was beginning to wonder if he wasn't falling and he just didn't know it. Or perhaps he was dead, and this was what his afterlife consisted of; he'd been sent to hell, obviously.

"Fat fucking moron."

Now that phrase _had_ been directed at Mycroft. He recognized the audio as a clip from one of their home movies, and it was of an event he would rather forget.

He had been ten years old; Sherlock had just turned three. It was Sherlock's birthday party, in fact. The little curly-haired genius had spent most parties in the past with his face buried in Mycroft's jacket, mostly hiding, but sometimes deducing other partygoers, and once or twice even smiling at one of the aunts and uncles whom he actually liked. But mostly hiding, as he didn't like loud noises or people, save for Mycroft; Mycroft was the only one he ever let hold him, or comfort him. Mummy and Father had found it both convenient and infuriating. Convenient because it meant they didn't have to deal with Sherlock's tantrums, and infuriating because they couldn't believe a small child could be so disrespectful towards his own parents by holding Mycroft above them in his thoughts.

Mycroft knew early on that his baby brother didn't like crowds, and was always careful to take him out of any situation that might result in him having a screaming fit (which seemed to occur more often than not), but Mummy and Father had been insistent that Sherlock be 'sociable' during this particular party. Mummy had decided to carry Sherlock around like a prized poodle, showing him off to all her rich friends, and snapping at him if he got scared. Mycroft hated it when anyone snapped at Sherlock; he was only a baby, after all, and he didn't understand all the societal rules his parents seemed to hold in such high esteem. This particular time, Mummy had ordered the tiny genius to deduce one stranger too many, and Sherlock had started to wail for Mycroft. The ginger had dropped the plate of food he'd been holding (resulting in Father smacking him hard in the back of the head) and bolted toward the sound of the young boy's cries, smiling as politely as possible at his Aunt Barbara and Uncle Eli, citing that Sherlock just needed a quick nap, and he would be back out for the festivities. They had bought it, thank god, and Mycroft had gotten Sherlock away before his wailing turned into a full-on meltdown. He had hushed the small child, holding him close to calm him. Sherlock had whimpered about how much he hated parties, and wanted all the people to go away. Mycroft had nodded and sighed in understanding, soothing Sherlock with the promise that they would play pirates after every guest had left. That had soothed the child, and Mycroft had been able to coax him into returning to the party.

He cringed as the track repeated, remembering how he had tripped while carrying one of Sherlock's presents, and fallen face-first into the dirt, smearing his expensive clothes with mud and grass stains. There had been much laughter all around, which was embarrassing in itself, but his father calling him a 'fat fucking moron' was the icing on the metaphorical cake. The ginger had smiled weakly, picking himself up and sitting next to his little brother, who seemed too immersed in all his presents to notice his older brother's distress.

_"He's right, you know,"_ the little voice in his head tsked, _"You are fat, and you are a fucking moron. You're so pathetic, Mycroft. Why didn't you bloody jump off that bridge when you were sixteen, like you planned?"_

"Because I promised Sherlock I wouldn't leave." If he _had,_ in fact, said that out loud, he didn't care.

_"Right, because the answer to one freak's problems is another freak. Brilliant deduction. Dumbarse."_

"He isn't a freak," Mycroft growled, disgusted with himself for carrying on a pseudo-conversation with a voice inside his head that wasn't even truly a voice, just his own thoughts being thrown back at him in the form of another voice.

_"Who are you kidding? Look at him, look at the both of you! You're both freaks."_

"I don't have to listen to you," Mycroft growled, lifting his eyes up to look at his forehead, "You're not even real. You don't exist."

_"Then why are you still talking to me?"_

Mycroft didn't answer, instead shutting his eyes and trying to ignore the recording that seemed to have gotten louder with each passing hour. "I'm finished with you. Go away."

_"Fine. Spoilsport."_

The government official sighed with relief, but his relaxation was short-lived. The track switched, this time to audio of a young child crying. Mycroft froze; "Sherlock?" he whispered, "Sherlock?!"

The audio was of one of Sherlock's many fits, but it seemed....different. Mycroft couldn't quite place his finger on it. Before he could react to the first track, however, a second one began to play. The track was of a slightly older-sounding child, still crying, and the word 'freak' could be discerned among the sobs. The ginger's heart stopped as he came to the slow realization that every single one of these tracks was of Sherlock. He thought back to all the times Sherlock may have cried or had a tantrum in front of a camera, but he couldn't recall many times, certainly not of this.

_"Don't you remember? Daddy dearest's precious house was probably bugged, either to keep him out of trouble, or other's in trouble. Obviously, they got their hands on the recordings. You know, it really shouldn't come as a surprise that your manor was bugged, Mycroft. You were just too stupid to figure it out."_ the little voice muttered in his ear.

"If the whole manor was bugged, and they have every recording, then that means-"

Another shriek cut off his thought, and he gasped. "No," he whispered, shutting his eyes tight. "No, no, no, no, NO!" He repeated the word over and over again as the track played.

"Mycroft!"

"Help!"

"Da, no!"

Sherlock's small voice echoed throughout the room, sharp slaps and cries interrupting his words.

"Sherlock..." Mycroft shook his head back and forth, pulling at the rope that bound his wrists, desperate to get it off, desperate to cover his ears to shut out the horrible sounds of his baby brother begging their father to stop hurting him.

"Sherlock!" he shouted, trying to drown out the track. The audio seemed to get louder, and Mycroft bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, rivulets of the sticky, red substance running down his chin.

"It's over, it isn't real, he can't hurt Sherlock anymore...." he said to himself, "It's not real, it's just make-believe, it isn't real, this isn't really happening..."

_"But it did happen. And you let it happen. You're a horrible brother, Mycroft; no wonder Sherlock hates you."_

"He doesn't..."

_"He does. And with good reason. You're useless. You couldn't protect him. You failed him."_

The thought in Mycroft's head was a final straw. Another shriek sounded from the speakers (which were presumably placed in the ceiling), and Mycroft gave up trying to fight the fear, panic and shame that was now swallowing him up.

He stopped fighting, and let himself scream.

***

"He's not dead."

Sherlock's voice carried over those of every other policeman in Mycroft's flat.

Greg looked up, shocked. "What?"

"He's not dead. There was no break-in, no signs of a struggle. He wasn't kidnapped from here, there were no strange indentations in the carpet when we came in. Unfortunately, I can no longer prove that because your officers are all idiots and didn't let me in first."

"I'm not in the mood for your shit, Sherlock." the DI growled, "Just tell me what happened."

Sherlock glanced around the flat, scoffing. "He obviously left the flat on his own. A woman was with him, presumably his horrid assistant, though I have no idea why she would be at his flat, she has no business here. They most likely went somewhere familiar, probably Mycroft's favourite bakery. He does have a tendency to stuff his face more than usual when he's upset, though I have no idea why he would be upset, I did predict your relationship would fail. He, evidently, was just not smart enough to listen."

The DI gritted his teeth and took a slow, deep breath, letting it out slowly. John gave Sherlock a dirty look, nudging him in the side. "Sherlock." he hissed, "We talked about this."

"What do you want from me, John?" the consulting detective retorted, "There is absolutely no reason for me to be here. We agreed that I don't get out of bed for anything less than a seven. This is a five, _at best_."

"He is your _brother_!" John snapped, his voice tinged with a bit of horror at Sherlock's indifference, though he wasn't sure why he was surprised; he'd known Sherlock long enough to know that not much mattered to him other than his cases, but he didn't think the man could be so cold about his own brother's disappearance and possible death.

"That does not make his disappearance any more interesting, honestly," Sherlock retorted, "This isn't even a real case! Why was I dragged out here at such an ungodly hour?"

"Because your brother has been kidnapped and could be fucking dead, and all you're worried about is your fucking 'boredom'. Get _over_ it and start helping us look for him, or fuck off!" Greg roared at the consulting detective, his lips curled back in a snarl.

Sherlock stared back at the DI defiantly. "My being here could be the only thing that keeps Mycroft from dying, if he hasn't met his untimely demise already. Your anger suggests that you still," he shuddered, "Care about him for some reason which I cannot fathom."

"Sherlock, shut up," John grabbed the consulting detective's arm and dragged him away from the DI, mouthing a halfhearted 'I'm sorry'. The DI nodded, feeling his heart clench; he wasn't even angry at Sherlock anymore. He sort of...pitied him. For him to be so indifferent about your own brother's disappearance (not death...Mycroft wasn't dead...) had to be one of the saddest things he'd ever seen.

Greg took a deep breath and ordered the rest of the officers to finish up and tag the evidence, what little of it there was. He stepped outside and pulled a pack of fags out of his pocket, holding one of the cigarettes between his fingers and lighting it. He took a long drag and blew it out, the smoke twisting and curling like fingers in the frigid air. "Wherever the fuck you are, Mycroft, I swear to god I'll find you." he whispered, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "I'm sorry." he murmured into the air, to no one.

"God, I'm sorry..."


	10. Chapter 10

"This way."

One of the officers waved Lestrade over, pointing to a spot on the side of the road. "There are tire tracks going into those woods, but not coming out." he muttered, trotting over to where the foliage hid the large, black SUV. The car was half-hidden in a pile of sticks and leaves, with several tree trunks blocking it. If one was looking at it from the roadside, it was nearly invisible, especially if one wasn't trying to see it. The only reason they'd found the bloody thing was because of the GPS system inside of it. 

Greg had spent the entire car ride there with his stomach in knots, hoping and praying that Mycroft wasn't inside, wasn't dead. He'd had barely ten hours sleep in as many days, spending most of his time down at NSY going over the evidence over and over again, until the words blurred on the page. 

_"Please don't let him be in there,"_ the DI silently prayed; he'd never been a religious man, despite being raised Catholic, but now he felt that if anything, even prayer, could help get Mycroft back safe and alive, he would do it.

"Looks like the thing's been here well over three days." he murmured, touching the buildup of dust and grime on the outside of the car. "Mycroft has been officially missing for two. And," he leaned down and brushed some of the dust off the license plate, "It has Mycroft's plates. It's one of his cars." 

"We'll get forensics down here to see if they can pick up any DNA off the car, maybe get a match to a driver, something." the officer (whose name Greg never remembered) muttered. The DI nodded, stepping away from the car and pulling out another cigarette, lighting it up near the edge of the road.

"Those things'll kill you, you know," 

He turned at the familiar voice, seeing Donovan standing behind him, two cups of coffee in her hand. "Caffeine's a better distraction, in my opinion. Not exactly calming like the nicotine, but it'll give your hands something to do other than give you lung cancer." she held out one of the cups, and he took it gratefully, tossing the cigarette on the ground. 

"You're worried about him," she said softly, sipping at her drink, "Understandable."

"It isn't," the DI muttered, "The guy cheated on me. With his own assistant no less."

"You're sure?"

"I saw them kiss. And I heard them talking about how they had to 'cover something up' and that 'Greg can't find out'. But that first reason is really all I need, isn't it?"

"Wrong." Sherlock's baritone sounded from behind them, a bored expression on his face. The consulting detective had arrived at the scene shortly after they did. Well, arrived wasn't quite the word, as John had practically dragged him there.

"Sherlock, shut up," Sally hissed, "Can't you go be useful? Walking into traffic comes to mind."

"Yes, and maybe you and Anderson can have some 'good old-fashioned fun' in my brother's car, such as what you were doing in the police cruiser not two hours ago." Sherlock retorted. The woman flushed and swallowed, opening her mouth to say something, then closing it. "What do you mean, wrong?" the DI asked with a furrowed brow. 

"Wrong. He is not having an affair with his horrid assistant."

"She isn't horrid...and how do you know?"

"I could list a thousand reasons, but I will only give you five." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"One: Mycroft has no interest in the woman, and she has no interest in him.

Two: Sentimental fool that Mycroft is, he would be deeply hurt if you had cheated on him, so he swore to himself never to inflict that pain on you. 

Three: He is not stupid. If he were having an affair, he wouldn't be so moronic as to allow you to hear word of it.

Four: For him to engage in sexual relations with her would jeopardize his career. He would never allow that.

And five: For some reason I fail to understand, he is in love with you. Mycroft does not love easily. I have never seen him actually love another human being as much as he seems to love you, the sentimental idiot. Therefore, it would be illogical for him to have an affair. Obviously."

Greg stood in stunned silence for a moment; he realized that everything Sherlock said, every deduction he had made, was all true. He had jumped to conclusions, and then not even allowed his partner a chance to explain himself.

 _"What have I done,"_ he thought in horror, _"Just because somebody fucking cheated on me before doesn't mean that Mycroft would....shit..."_

"Inspector!"

A loud voice jolted the DI from his thoughts. "What?"

"We found a shoe print, we're going to make a cast and see if it matches anything we have on file."

"You think this might be related to the-"

"To the what?" Sherlock interrupted.

Greg sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Last year," he said quietly, "An underling of a member of Parliament went missing, and later turned up dead. The same thing happened six months ago, then four months, with each official getting progressively higher in rank. And now Mycroft...I didn't want it to be true, I tried to convince myself it wasn't, but it can't be a coincidence."

"Of course not. Coincidences don't exist. Honestly, you people aren't terribly bright."

The DI gritted his teeth, trying very hard not to haul back and punch Sherlock square in the jaw. "Sherlock," he said slowly, trying to remember that Sherlock was, in fact, a sociopath, and didn't know any better, "Your brother has been kidnapped and could be dead, which you evidently do not care about, and worse, you can't even give the rest of us the courtesy of not having to hear you blathering on about how bored you are. As a scientist, and an observer, couldn't you see how that would warrant a response of anger from someone?"

"No." Sherlock said, boredom crossing his face again. "No, I do not see that. I don't see how the fact that he and I are related by blood (which I'm still not convinced of, considering his hair colour and build) should somehow make me feel more inclined to take his case, which isn't even a case. And I do not know why you would still care about him, as you did walk out on him. Probably with good reason, I would imagine. He's fat, he smokes, he isn't talented-"

The DI could take no more, drew back his fist, and punched Sherlock in the side of the jaw, knocking him to the ground. The consulting detective moaned and brought a hand up to his mouth, shocked when his fingers came away bloody. Greg glared down at the brunette, malice in his eyes. His fist throbbed from the force of the punch, and he shook his hand to take some of the sting out, turned on his heel, and left. A chorus of voices behind him was murmuring, some about him, and some about how it was high time Sherlock got a punch in the face. The silver-haired man pulled out his pack of cigarettes, grunting in frustration when he found he was out of them.

He stalked towards his car, coughed, then forced a breath out through his nose; he'd be of no help here, like this, he knew that. It was best he went home, forensics would call if they found anything. He wouldn't be able to sleep, or eat, or even watch crap telly, but at least he wouldn't be endangering the people around him. He pulled out his keys and unlocked the door to his car (he'd taken his own vehicle instead of a cruiser, due to it being faster and easier for him to drive) and opened it, sliding into the driver's seat. He started the engine, glancing in the review mirror at the scene behind him. There were several people gathered around Sherlock, and Anderson appeared to be laughing his smug arse off. John wore an expression of both annoyance and boredom, and Sally was completely in shock.

The DI slammed his hand down on the steering wheel, hard. "Fuck!" he shouted at nothing in particular, scrubbing a hand over his face and sighing. Who was he kidding, he couldn't do this. They would never find Mycroft, not alive, at least. The only body that had ever been found had been mercilessly tortured before death, and the other two had never been found. Greg knew in the back of his mind that it was likely they were dead, but he refused to believe that the same could be true for Mycroft. It couldn't be, he was Mycroft Holmes for Christ's sake, he couldn't be dead. No, he was probably just off cavorting with rich politicians in some super-exclusive club. He would do that, just up and leave with no explanation as to where he was going or when he would be back, leaving the DI to sit in London, sick with worry, giving himself cancer with all the cigarettes he'd been smoking.

"Fucking Mycroft and his fucking disappearance and his _stupid_ fucking making me love him so damn much." he choked, forcing back tears so they wouldn't blur his vision. "You're a fucking idiot, Mycroft." he imagined the ginger was sitting next to him, that perpetual smug smirk he always had still on his face. "You're a moron. How could you fucking let yourself get kidnapped? You're Mycroft bloody Holmes, you don't get kidnapped. You're probably off in whatever-the-hell-country you usually go to when you're aggravated. You're probably fine, probably sipping some wine that costs more per glass than a month's rent for me, you posh bastard."

He swerved to avoid another car, and swore loudly. "You're such a fucking idiot, Mycroft." he repeated to himself, his voice quieting. "Please...don't be dead. I haven't asked for much out of life, but...please, God, don't be dead. I need you. You're...Christ," he wiped away his tears, "You're everything. I'm sorry I overreacted, I should have known you wouldn't cheat. And even if you did, I don't bloody care. Just...stop this. Don't be dead, please. I need you, you can't be dead, because I don't know what I'm going to do without you. Please, if you love me at all..." The DI swallowed hard.

"Don't be dead."


	11. Chapter 11

Anthea strained her eyes and craned her neck, trying to find even a pinpoint of light to focus on, something to take her out of the void of darkness that now surrounded her. Her arm had stopped bleeding, thank god for that, but her head still ached from the force of the blow that had been inflicted on her. The silence in the room was deafening, punctuated only by her own rough, ragged breaths. She'd been in the room for...twelve hours, twenty-four? She'd lost count after they had taken Mycroft away. 

Mycroft.

She bit her lip, wincing in pain as her teeth grazed the raw, reddened skin. She had sworn to protect him, and she hadn't. She'd failed at her job, and she'd failed the man she considered to be her dearest friend. If they had hurt Mycroft, or worse...No, that couldn't be true. Even they wouldn't kill Mycroft....would they? She didn't know. What she did know was, if she got out of here alive, she was going to skin every single one of these horrible men, and make them pay for whatever they had done to Mycroft.

There was suddenly a sound outside the door, and she lifted her head, both afraid of what was behind that door, and relieved that she hadn't been left there to starve to death. Or worse.

The door opened, and the bright, white light blinded her for a moment. She heard footsteps, what sounded like metal clanking against the floor, and a loud slam, presumably the door being closed again. She struggled to make out any shape in the darkness, but it was a futile effort. She heard breathing, and she tensed; it was the man from before, Nikolas. Alexei's brother. The man who had kidnapped them and brought them here, beaten them, terrified them. "It's you, isn't it," she growled, "Show your face, you coward."

Nikolas didn't respond, but Anthea heard the clinking of more metal, and the sound of something being pulled out of a fabric bag, or possibly a holster. Her entire body went numb; was he going to shoot her?

"Answer me," she commanded, her voice shaking slightly. "Or are you a coward?"

The man's breathing stopped for a minute. Anthea heard several clicks, then a whoosh of air. A bright orange flame suddenly lit up, floating eerily in the air like a St. Elmo's fire. It was a blowtorch, that much she could see, and there was a large, scarred, burned hand holding it. A shadow appeared in front of the flame, and she stared at it for a minute, then froze; it was a knife.

The large, smooth blade began to glow orange as the flame heated it up, a bright colour floating as if by magic in the room filled with darkness. Her mouth went dry; he was going to use that knife on her, obviously. "What are you going to do with that?" she murmured, afraid of the answer. She heard an intake of breath, then, finally, a voice.

"We need information from you, information that your companion cannot give us."

"What are you bastards doing to him," she growled, "I swear to god, if you hurt him..."

"Do shut up," Nikolas replied, sounding bored. He lifted the glowing knife in the air and made several long slashes, the light moving back and forth in long strokes.

"You won't get anything out of me." Anthea spat, running her tongue along her swollen, cut and bleeding bottom lip. "It will take more than simple threats to break me. Unlike you, I have loyalties."

"Oh, I don't doubt you do," Nikolas laughed, reigniting the blowtorch, the orange glow of the flame lighting up his face, giving him an eerie, almost demon-like appearance, "The question is, how long will you last?"

"Do your worst," the brunette said with a powerful voice that hid her fear, "I'm not afraid of you."

"Oh, you silly girl," the blonde purred, approaching Anthea's chair and circling around it, "You misunderstand. You _should_ be afraid of me."

"Why, because you're holding a blade?" Anthea bit back, "I've killed more men defending my country than you have trying to destroy it. You don't scare me. I'm not afraid of torture, or death; do you know why?" Her voice took on an icy edge.

"Because at the end of my life, I will die knowing that I stayed loyal to those whom I promised to. What about you?"

Nikolas' eyes hardened, and he shut off the torch, then roughly grabbed Anthea's left wrist and cut through the rope holding it to the leg of the chair, the white-hot blade pressing into her skin. She couldn't stifle a loud cry as the smell of burning flesh hit her delicate nostrils, making her gag. "What do you _want_ from me?!" she shrieked, "I am not afraid of you! What could you possibly accomplish by hurting me?"

"To harm you is to harm him, and that is our goal in this endeavor."

"To hurt Mycroft? Why?"

"He killed my brother," Nikolas spat, "And he will pay."

"Your brother killed himself," Anthea shouted, her voice echoing off the walls of the small room, "And the world didn't lose anything that day."

Nikolas snarled and reached out to yank Anthea's left hand up into the air. "So rude," he growled, pulling the brunette's fingers "Perhaps losing one of these lovely fingers will teach you how to behave."

Anthea swallowed, trying not to show her fear. "Slicing off fingers? Isn't that a tad bit cliche? Surely you can be more original than that."

Nikolas didn't answer, instead pressing the sharp blade against Anthea's little finger, slicing through layers of muscle and skin, cutting all the way down to the bone. Anthea couldn't suppress the bloodcurdling scream that burst forth as the blade cut through the area where finger met palm, the heat of the blade cauterizing the wound before blood could even drip from it, the sound and smell of burning flesh overwhelming her. She let out another scream as the final layer of thin skin was sliced through, as Nikolas twisted off her delicate pinky finger and let it drop to the ground with a sickening smack. The man chuckled darkly, reaching up to grab Anthea's chin, forcing their eyes to meet. He leaned all the way forward, his putrid breath ghosting over her trembling lips. "Had enough?"

Anthea swallowed, gathered her courage, and spit in his face, lifting her injured hand to drive her thumbnail straight into his eye. The blonde let out a roar of pain and fell backwards, clutching at his face as blood and ocular fluid dripped down his face. 

"You stupid fucking cunt!" he roared, fumbling along the wall for a light switch. Anthea reached over as best she could to untie her right hand, struggling with the knot on the rope. Eventually, the rope fell to the ground, and she jumped up, kicking off her shoes and standing completely still, listening carefully for any other sound of movement.

Nikolas eventually found the light switch and flipped it on, wincing as his eyes were flooded with a bright light. Anthea shrunk back as well, her now-sensitive eyes screaming with pain at the sudden intrusion. She brought her hand up to cover them, hoping to see Nikolas before he saw her, but the effort was futile. She felt an arm around her waist, and she shrieked before a large hand covered her mouth. 

A warm, wet, dripping face was pressed against her cheek, and she shuddered as the ocular fluid and blood ran down her neck. "You are going to pay for that, you insolent little bitch," Nikolas growled, "You are going to pay!"

***

The door to the darkened room opened, and Mycroft vaguely registered voices. The audio tracks that had been playing for the past twenty-four hours were shut off, and an eerie silence surrounded him, a silence that seemed too loud for his ears. "Sherlock," he murmured, "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock..." He repeated his little brother's name over and over again, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth from his lack of hydration. His mind had completely shorted itself out after six hours of the audio, and he was now completely unable to form a proper thought, other than of his brother.  
 _"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock..."_ Mycroft's mind barely registered the voices around him; they sounded heavy and muddled, like the sound of a telly playing in the flat next door to one's own. _"Sherlock..."_

"Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck happened to him?"

"That is called proper torture. You are learning from the master. I must admit, he did last longer than the others did, probably because he was able to train that brain of his out of having too many of those pesky little emotions. Pity, I enjoyed making them break in progressively smaller intervals, but I suppose this will have to do."

"What do you want us to do, boss?"

"Take him back into the room and let him see what we've done with his little friend."

_"Sherlock, Anthea, Sherlock, Anthea..."_

Mycroft felt himself being untied and lifted over someone's shoulder, his ribs pressing uncomfortably hard into what felt like rock (but it had to be a bone, though it was harder than any bone Mycroft had ever felt before). His thoughts were no longer only focused on Sherlock; he remembered, just barely, that Anthea was also in danger. "Anthea..." he murmured, dropping his head onto his captor's lower back, "Anthea, Sherlock..."

"Shut up." came a muffled voice from behind him. He felt himself being shoved back a bit further over his captor's shoulder, a pair of heavy arms pinning him in place. His hands were roughly pulled behind his back and tied together, but he didn't have the will nor the energy to bat them away. He struggled weakly, his effort earning him a sharp pinch on the back of the calf, causing him to cry out in pain. The sounds that escaped his mouth were absolutely pathetic, he told himself; the voice was right, he was pathetic.

"Sherlock..." he murmured.

 _"Sherlock isn't really here, you idiot,"_ his inner voice mocked him, _"You're so stupid, he's not even here. You let them torture you, you stupid man. How pathetic. You let them do this to you. You're so sad, Mycroft."_

Nikolas stepped in front of Mycroft, reaching down to grip his chin. He forced the ginger's head up, pulling several muscles in his neck and back. Mycroft let out a pitiful sound, somewhere between a whimper and a sob, and the blonde laughed bitterly. "Now," he growled, "I want you to give me the codes to the four missile launching sites around the country."

"For what?" Mycroft asked, taking note of the bandage that was now on Nikolas' face. _"Anthea must have gotten to him,"_ he thought with a bit of glee. His joy was short-lived, however, as the knowledge sunk in that had Anthea been successful in her attack on the blonde, they would not still be in this situation.

"Give me the goddamn missile codes." the blonde was starting to become aggravated.

"We don't have missiles..." Mycroft murmured, feeling faint from the amount of blood rushing to his head. Nikolas snarled, then reached into his pocket and drew his knife, flipping it open and pressing the blunt side of the blade against Mycroft's neck (it felt rather warm...). "Cut the diplomatic bullshit and tell me. The missile codes." he spat, digging the metal deeper into Mycroft's neck. Mycroft let out a whimper, but stayed silent otherwise. After another minute, Nikolas' eyes hardened, and he pulled the knife away from Mycroft's neck. "Very well," he muttered, "Take him down and leave him with his little assistant. I'm sure after he sees the...altercations we have made to her, he will become more talkative."

"Anthea..."

The four men walked back down the corridor they had come from, laughing and jeering about how they couldn't wait to see the look on the government official's face when he saw the extent of the damage. Mycroft went limp in the man's arms, giving up all attempts at fighting him off. At this point, all he could hope for was that they would kill him quickly, or at the very least kill him before they killed Anthea. He inwardly scowled at his own cowardice; he was Mycroft Holmes, British government, feared by thousands of men across the world. And yet, here he was, shivering like a cold, wet puppy over something as silly as a little possible torture, possible death. He didn't fear death itself (it was a natural biological process, after all) but he did fear pain. Pain, and leaving those he loved behind. 

One of the men kicked open the door to where Anthea was being held captive, and tossed Mycroft down on the ground, his left hip hitting the tile with a sickening thud. He let out a cry of pain, and felt a pair of hands on his back. "Sir-"

"Enjoy your stay. We'll be back." Nikolas spat, slamming the door behind them, immersing the pair in total darkness once more.

"Anthea," Mycroft murmured, rolling over onto his back, and sitting up slowly, "Anthea, Sherlock..."

"Hush, Sherlock is fine," she soothed, "And you are fine. I promise you, everything will be alright, sir. I need you to untie my hands, can you do that for me?" she asked, shuffling so Mycroft's back was pressed up against her own. It took Mycroft a good ten minutes to untie her hands properly, but once the first knot was undone, Anthea was able to free herself. As soon as her hands were released, she reached forward and began to untie Mycroft's hands, using her right hand to stroke his forehead as she did so.

"Sherlock..." the ginger repeated, "Sherlock..."

"Yes, Sherlock is just fine, I promise you," the young woman murmured, "I swear to you, Sherlock is safe. He's with John, he's safe."

"My baby...Sherlock....Father...."

Anthea felt her heart twist in her chest, anger flaring up in her cheeks. "No, darling," she hushed, hoping the terms of endearment would calm her boss, "Sherlock is just fine, your baby Sherlock is fine. Your father is dead, he can't hurt Sherlock. I promise you."

"Not...but....Sherlock..."

"Mycroft, do you trust me?" she murmured as she freed his hands, guiding him down so he was lying on his back, his head in her lap.

"Yes," the ginger replied, his voice thick and heavy. "With my life..."

"Then trust me now, love. I promise you, your Sherlock is safe."

"You promise?" he asked, his eyes beginning to fall shut.

"Yes," she said softly, running her mutilated but not bleeding hand over his forehead, "Now, go to sleep, please. You need your rest."

Mycroft nodded, feeling his mind beginning to shift back to normal, but also sensed something was off. "You...Oh, God...You're missing fingers!"

"Shh, I'm fine," she lied, tucking her hand behind her back, resuming stroking his hair with the other, "Please, sleep."

"You're missing your _fingers_ , I can't sleep..."

"I am fine, Mycroft. Please, sleep." she cupped his cheeks in both hands and tried to find his eyes. "Just...everything will be fine. You need to recalibrate yourself after whatever they did to you. Rest."

"....I'm afraid to."

"I will keep you safe." she reassured the ginger, giving one of his chubby, bruised cheeks a pat. "I always have, remember?"

Mycroft nodded slowly, closing his eyes. "You promised..."

"Yes, yes I did," Anthea replied as she rubbed Mycroft's shoulder, attempting to calm him enough so that he would rest. "And I will keep those promises, all of them. Trust me."

"I trust you," the government official murmured, "I don't want them to hurt you, though."

"They can't hurt a tough old bird like me," she chuckled, giving her boss a hesitant kiss on the forehead. "Please, sleep. I will keep you safe."

She didn't have to tell the government official twice, as he fell asleep in her arms minutes later. She stroked his ginger waves gently, looking up at the ceiling and letting out a shaky breath; she had to be strong, for Mycroft's sake as well as her own. "You'll be alright," she murmured, "We'll get out of here." She looked around the room, trying to see something, anything, but to no avail.

She sighed. "We'll get you out of here, I promise." she whispered, "I promise you."


	12. Chapter 12

"I'm sorry. I can't help you."

The voice of Julius Manchester echoed throughout the small office, his large hands resting on his desk with a gentleness that betrayed their size. The elderly man leaned back in his chair and took a breath, pulling off his glasses and cleaning them with a cloth handed to him by his young assistant.

Greg sat back, stunned. He had finally made a break in the case, learning about this Alexei Burgone that Mycroft had somehow been involved with previously, and finding that information had been a miracle in and of itself. When he learned that Julius, the man who had supervised and mentored Mycroft throughout his earlier political career, he had been sure that there was a God, or at least some sort of good karma coming his way (he had had a pretty shit fortnight, after all), but now that the man was refusing to help, it felt like the rug had been pulled out from under him, sending him crashing back down into the world of sickeningly cold reality.

"What do you mean, you can't help us?" the DI asked, fighting to keep his voice level. _"Maybe he doesn't know anything, maybe he honestly forgot about Mycroft."_ After all, going twenty years without seeing someone had to have some sort of effect on one's memory, compounded with the man's age, which Greg guessed to be in the late eighties, early nineties, if not more.

"I mean exactly what I say, Detective Inspector," the man murmured, "Alexei's file has not been declassified. It would practically be treason for me to tell you the details of his case. I with I could help. Mycroft was a fine man when I knew him; always so ready to pounce, to fix everything. He was a real prodigy, that one."

"He...right," Greg despised the use of the past tense verbs, but chalked it up to an old man reminiscing about his younger days rather than a subtle hint that Mycroft was most likely dead. "Can't you at least tell us _why_ he would want Mycroft dead? Normal criminals don't usually get that...obsessed with killing the person that captured them."

Julius sighed, then said something to his assistant in a language Greg didn't recognize. The man nodded, then walked over to the door, quickly shutting it and flipping a switch, shutting off every camera in the room, including the audio bugs that had been placed around the office for the official's own protection, in case of espionage attempts or any other crimes being committed against his person happened to occur, in which case said bugs were to be used as evidence.

The white-haired man let out a soft sigh, then leaned forward and placed his elbows on the smooth wood of his desk. "I should not tell you anything about this case. If you were to know too much about it, then they would trace the information back to me, and that would not be good for me, politically or socially."

"A man has been kidnapped and is possibly dead, and you're worried about saving your own arse?!" the DI cried, "I can't believe you!"

"Silence!" the elderly official snapped, "Or I will have you tossed out of here, and you won't get _any_ information!"

Greg mulled over his options for a moment, then sat back, clenching his fists at his side. "You said...any information. Does that mean you'll give me something to go on?"

"It does."

"What is it?"

"I'll show you," the official murmured, reaching down into one of his drawers and rummaging around. He pulled a large metal box from the drawer, a box with a numerical combination lock on the side. Julius carefully punched in the combination, and the box popped open with a click. A large, thick manila folder lay inside the box, with a very large, very obnoxious 'CLASSIFIED' stamped on the front in big, red ink.

"You lot don't really do subtlety, do you?" Greg chuckled nervously as Julius laid the file down in front of him. The older man cleared his throat, then spoke. "This is Alexei's file," he said in a low voice, "Everything you need to know is in here. But I must warn you of a few things, and tell you a few things first."

"What's that?" the DI murmured, staring intently at the glaring red on top of the dark orange colour of the envelope.

Julius took a deep breath and removed his glasses, then rubbed his eyes in what Greg could tell was a much-used gesture. "Mycroft," he began, "Mycroft was a prodigy among us, in his younger days. So intelligent, and devious, and cunning; we really were lucky to have him, especially during the aftermath of the Cold War with the Soviets. I'm sure you remember it well."

"I do remember it, but what does that have to do with-"

"Shh," the government official silenced the DI, "It has everything to do with Mycroft. There was a man, Alexei Burgone, as you know. He ran a criminal organization intent on bringing the entire civilized world to its knees through fear tactics and threats. Alexei was a power-hungry maniac, and got off on the idea of being supreme ruler of the world. Well, most of us would fancy that, but none of us are so insane as to actually plot a way to implement that sick fantasy."

"So you knew who he was, and you tried to stop him?"

"We did stop him, though not after much...encouragement."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Julius sighed again and closed his eyes, shaking his head with apparent regret. "This was before we knew any other way to get information, before we had better technology, better espionage techniques. We never could have predicted-"

"Predicted what?" the DI interrupted, sounding a little worried. "What...What did you lot do to him? Alexei, I mean."

The white-haired man let out a breath and bit the inside of his cheek, catching the moistened skin between his teeth. "There were...actions taken against Mr. Burgone that would be considered inappropriate by today's standards."

"What kind of actions?" Greg asked carefully, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Julius' assistant cleared his throat, and Greg shot him a dirty look. "What kind of actions?" he repeated, "Was there...something against the Geneva Convention involved?"

"Yes," Julius answered in a low voice, "There were things done to Mr. Burgone by your partner, and as a result, directly or indirectly, Alexei killed himself in his cell after the interrogation. There were cameras on him, and two security guards. We cannot figure out why he did it, or how. He had already given us the information needed to bring down his organization; it wasn't as if he was protecting anyone."

"Maybe he was protecting someone," Greg thought aloud, "Maybe...Maybe killing himself was some sort of warning?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, you said he had a huge organization. You lot couldn't have captured every agent in every country, that's impossible. Maybe his death was a warning that death would come to anyone involved with the organization's downfall."

"It's a stretch, detective inspector," Julius murmured, "And a very long one at that. All we know is that Alexei's brother, Nikolas, was so angry when he learned of his brother's death that he swore to kill every one of those involved."

"But most of those who were involved are already dead," Greg murmured, "Right?"

"They are dead of suicide, all of them. Their children, however..."

Greg's eyes widened at Julius' words. "You don't mean..."

"Yes," the elderly man sighed, "The first man that disappeared was the son of Charles Tindall, Vincent Tindall. The second to disappear was the son of Roy Sharp. The third was the nephew of my mentor, Brian Walker, who instituted the practices that we used on Alexei."

"You tortured him." the DI whispered.

"Yes."

Greg sat back, dumbstruck; he had known, somewhere deep in his psyche, that Mycroft had probably been involved in some sort of torture cover-ups in his years as a politician. Most every politician was, let's be honest. But Mycroft, his sweet yet aggravating Mycroft...no. He didn't believe it, he _refused_ to believe it. It couldn't have been true, there was a mistake somewhere. Mycroft would never cover up torture, let alone _perform it_.

"Mycroft was involved?" he said finally, bracing himself for the inevitable sting of the answer.

"Mycroft was the only one allowed into Alexei's cell."

The older man's words felt like a punch in the stomach, compounded by a swift kick in the bollocks. "He...no," the DI murmured, "That isn't possible. Mycroft would never-"

"He did," Julius interrupted, "And I apologize for this, but you will have to figure out the rest on your own. If I keep the bugs off for more than fifteen minutes at a time, people tend to get suspicious. Corruption and such, you know; people tend to get very touchy about it."

"I uh...yeah...thanks, I guess." Greg muttered uncomfortably, taking the file from Julius' slightly shaky hands. The government official nodded, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Now go," he murmured, "And give that file back to me when you're done."

***

Greg read over the file in his hand for what seemed like the thousandth time, his eyes glazing over with fatigue and exhaustion. Everything Julius had said was true; there were pictures, doctors' notes, even notes in Mycroft's own handwriting, detailing the extent of the torture that this mysterious Alexei Burgone had gone through. The DI found himself feeling oddly sympathetic for the man; the sympathy wasn't odd in and of itself, but considering Alexei was indirectly responsible for the kidnapping and possible death of his lover, Greg figured he ought to be more angry. Oddly enough, the only emotion that he could truly admit to feeling was disgust. 

He didn't usually feel disgusted. He had seen a lot of dead bodies in his lifetime, and would likely see thousands more. But something about Alexei's body bothered him. Something about the skin discolouration, the marks on his neck...the DI couldn't place his finger on it, but he knew that something was wrong. 

"What did you do, Alexei? Why did you do it?" he murmured as he thumbed through the folder, "Or, who did this to you?"

He pulled out one of the photos to stare at it again. It was of Alexei, lying on a medical exam table, his body still and silent, like the many others that had come before him. The evidence of torture on the body was clear, but the medical reports stated (well, the reports done by the doctors in the compound, all of whom Greg suspected were involved to some extent) that there was nothing out of the ordinary about the body, save for the rope burn on his neck from the noose the man had used to hang himself (or so the reports all claimed).

He reached up to rub his eyes, feeling sleep tugging at the corners of his exhausted mind. He glanced up at the clock: 6:13 a.m. Too early to be awake, too late to be asleep, he thought with disgust. He was turning into a Holmes, he told himself. He allowed his mind to wander back to the first time he had ever discovered Mycroft's odd sleeping habits.

It had been about two weeks after Mycroft and he began sharing a bed, and Greg had been sound asleep in Mycroft's (ridiculously huge) bed, under several of the finest silk sheets, which made him rather uncomfortable in and of itself. After all, it wouldn't do to upset the British government by jizzing on his sheets, now would it? But judging by the way they had fucked the night before, the DI had suspected Mycroft had no qualms about a few stained sheets. He'd awoken to the smell of coffee, and the sound of Mycroft whisper-yelling into his phone, a regular occurrence with the government official. He'd looked up at the clock (which read only four in the bloody morning, might he add) and groaned, but decided that it would most likely be best for him to go to Mycroft, instead of lying in bed like the lazy git that he was. After a quick conversation, the DI had been surprised to learn that Mycroft's insomnia was chronic, and had been so since his early childhood. He'd managed to keep this particular fact about himself rather secret, but evidently felt the need to share it with his lover that night/morning. Mycroft was never one to reveal secrets, especially ones about himself, but he had chosen that moment to reveal another layer of himself, no matter how silly or trivial it may have been. Greg had become immensely fond of Mycroft's habits after that, though he still insisted the man come to bed with him every night in an attempt to soothe him into slumber.

He was jolted from his memories by a loud ringing noise, and he jumped nearly a foot in the air. Realizing it was his cell phone, he felt a blush creeping into his unshaven cheeks. He glanced at the number, or lack thereof, considering it was being withheld from his view. Hesitantly, he pressed the little green 'accept' button and lifted the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Inspector Lestrade," there was a voice on the other end of the line, a familiar one. It sounded very masculine, but he couldn't be sure. He thought it might be Julius' assistant, so he went with that.

"Nathan?" he guessed.

"No, it's Angela, Julius' secretary. Remember?"

"Yeah yeah, I must have forgotten about you. Sorry about that, haven't really slept." he reached up to rub his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Are you alone?"

"Yeah, why?" the DI murmured suspiciously, "Something wrong?"

"There's been another murder."

The DI's heart stopped. "There are murders practically every day," he said slowly, "And the Yard hasn't notified me, so they must not have discovered it yet. And the only way they wouldn't have discovered it is if you didn't call it in." Greg was beginning to feel like a regular Holmes from hanging around the two brothers for so long. His deduction skills weren't nearly as developed as theirs, but it was something.

There was a loud swallowing sound on the other end of the line. "Nathan was murdered last night," she said softly, "We've managed to get our finest people on it-"

"Wait, _Nathan_ was murdered?" he gasped in shock, "Why would he be murdered? He didn't have anything to do with those cover-ups."

"That's just the thing; if it had been Julius, I would have understood. But Nathan? He wasn't even alive when any of this took place."

"Who found him?" Greg murmured, his copper side taking over.

"I did. This morning. He was slumped over Julius' desk in a pool of blood. Julius is completely devastated, he loved Nathan like a son."

"Maybe that's why they killed him," the DI said softly, "It seems like they take away everything that their true targets hold dear as a way of torturing them."

"Why would they do that?"

"Maybe because they realized the worst type of torture is taking away everything someone loves, then having the cruelty to leave them alive."

"So they were tortured by their own grief, and that caused them to take their own lives, basically doing the organization's job themselves."

Greg bit the inside of his cheek and nodded, before realizing that the woman couldn't see him through her mobile. "So why didn't you call the Yard when you learned there was a murder?" he changed the subject, padding into the loo to wash up his face and perhaps even shave.

"I wanted to allow you a look at the body first, since you are so close to this case."

"You realize if NSY found out what you're doing, you'd be the first person they suspect."

"I know."

"So why are you doing this?"

Angela let out a soft sigh. "I liked Nathan. He was a good kid. Never hurt anyone, never said a rude thing to me the entire time he was here. I don't think the guy knew how to be mean. I don't know how someone could-" she choked, cutting herself off. "I'm sorry," she murmured, "Please, tell me if you'd like to have a look at the body. I can't keep looking at him much longer."

Greg took a deep breath, then nodded. "Alright, let me see him."

"There's one other thing."

"What's that?"

"There's a...a word, he scrawled on the desk."

"A word?"

"It looks like it was scratched into the wood with one of Julius' calligraphy pens, let me see if I can read what it says...oh god, that's a lot of blood...."

"Just...please try to read it. Ignore the blood, pretend it isn't real. It's just make-believe."

The woman took a deep breath and leaned over the desk, careful not to disturb anything. She craned her neck to see the scrawl right-side up. She lifted the phone back up to her ear and let out the breath she'd been holding.

"What does it say?" Greg pressed, "Can you read it?"

"It doesn't make sense," she murmured, "I don't think he was coherent when he died, he was stabbed a lot..."

"Just tell me what it says." Greg snapped.

"You're sure?"

"Yes I am fucking sure! Tell me what it says!" the DI was shouting now.

"Alright, alright!" she hissed, squinting to try to make out the very last letter of the word.

"Angela," Greg sucked in a breath through his teeth. "What does it say?"

"It doesn't make sense, I don't think-"

"Tell me what it fucking says!"

"It says..." she leaned further over the desk, grimacing at the sight of the blood.

"Freckles."


	13. Chapter 13

Anthea ran her hand over Mycroft's forehead, brushing his tangled ginger hair away from his eyes. "Mycroft," she murmured softly, "Mycroft, wake up."  
The government official let out a groan and yawned, turning over onto his good hip and pressing his face into Anthea's leg.

"Shush," he murmured, closing his eyes.

She smiled at the deep tone Mycroft's voice took on when he'd just woken up, then winced as said smile caused one of the cuts on her lip to split open, a drop of blood oozing from the soft, pink skin. "Wake up," she repeated, gently shaking his shoulder, "You do realize we're still trapped in here, right?"

"Hm?"

"This room. It's dark. We're still _trapped_ , remember?"

Mycroft's eyes snapped open, and he sat upright abruptly. "Sherlock-"

"-Is fine." the young woman finished, feeling blindly for Mycroft's hand. "I promise you."

"But what if he isn't? Nikolas said that-"

"Nikolas can't get at Sherlock, Mycroft. He has his John, and your Greg, and all of Scotland Yard. He's fine, I promise you."

Mycroft relaxed, letting out a soft sigh and sinking back down to the floor, resting his head on Anthea's shoulder. "They had him in the room..."

"No, love," she said softly, hoping the well-used pet name would soothe the government official, "It wasn't him, it was a recording. They don't have him. Think logically about this. How old is Sherlock?"

"Thirty-six," Mycroft answered automatically.

"And how old is the child in that audio recording?"

"He was...oh." Mycroft's voice became very quiet. "I let them..."

"You did. But it isn't your fault, god, you must have lived it all over again."

"Every six minutes," Mycroft murmured, "Every six minutes, the track repeated."

"Poor baby," she murmured, toying with one of his curls, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"You can practically read my mind anyway, why don't you tell me what I feel?"

"You're emotionally stunted, you know that? But alright." she shifted so her back was pressed against the wall, and reached down to take Mycroft's hand."You're hurt, scared, embarrassed, and angry. Hurt both physically and emotionally, by these bastards and Gregory, respectively," she murmured, "Scared because, well, only an idiot wouldn't be scared in this situation. Embarrassed because you think you aren't entitled to have these emotions, because your father instilled it in you early that real men don't succumb to emotion, and Holmes succumb to it even less, which is just idiotic. And angry because you can't believe someone would have the audacity to do these things to the both of us, or more specifically me, as you're very protective of me. Which I very much appreciate, but I can take care of myself."

"You are missing three of your fingers, from what I can tell. And it wasn't a clean slice; your ring finger was cut halfway through with a hot knife, then twisted the rest of the way off." he murmured, "I should have protected you."

"It isn't your job to protect me," she insisted, "It's your job to take care of you. Not me, not Gregory, and not Sherlock. You."

"I think you forget that my brother needs me to care for him."

"Not anymore, Mycroft," Anthea sighed, reaching up to rub her eyes with her good hand (god, she was exhausted). "He isn't a child anymore," she said softly, "He can protect himself, and even when he can't, he has so many other people to protect him. He's got his John, and your Greg, and even Mrs. Hudson keeps an eye on him. He's fine, I promise you."

"He needs me."

"Yes, he does. But he doesn't need you to constantly kidnap anybody who comes within ten feet of him."

"I have to protect him."

"Did you ever stop to think that maybe you caused some of his issues regarding relationships by kidnapping anyone who got close to him? Bloody hell, the only reason John didn't run was because he was intrigued by all of this," she waved her hand in the air, forgetting momentarily that Mycroft couldn't see it. "You know I've never been anything but honest with you, and I am telling you now that he does not need you to protect him. He needs an older brother, not a guard."

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut and let out a shaky breath, clasping Anthea's hand a little tighter, grimacing at the feeling of several stumps protruding from her palm. "Alright," he murmured, "And...god, I'm sorry for all of this. This never would have happened had I been more careful."

"See, there you go blaming yourself again. Tell me, did you order these people to kidnap us?"

"No, but-"

"Did you tell them to torture me?"

"Of course not!"

"Then it isn't your fault that this happened. You were doing your job, with the torture thing; trying to get ahead, like we all do. Nothing wrong with that."

"But look what it caused," he murmured, swallowing back a wave of emotion.

"You didn't cause this, Mycroft," she sighed, running her hand up and down his spine. "You can't predict everything. You don't have superpowers."

"Sometimes I think I would be better off without these deductive skills." he said quietly, curling up a bit closer to the young woman.

"You're right, you would be," she replied, "But you wouldn't be you without them." She pressed her cheek against his forehead, careful to avoid her bruises. "I can tell you're nearly in tears," she said softly, "Let it out."

"I am not nearly in tears," Mycroft snapped, "It's stupid to cry over things you can't change. It's stupid to cry over anything, really."

"It isn't stupid," the brunette muttered, "And you are entitled to these emotions, you know. You are still human."

"What makes you think I don't already know I'm allowed to have emotions?"

"I didn't say allowed, I said entitled. Big difference," she replied, "And to answer your second question, I can read your mind, remember?"

Mycroft lifted his head to glare at her for a moment, knowing full-well she couldn't see him. "I am not entitled to these emotions," he said bitterly, "Nothing happened to me that cannot be taken care of by a few bandages and some antiseptic. It's ridiculous to be so upset over a few beatings and an audio track that is over thirty years old."

"It isn't ridiculous, Mycroft," she replied, stroking her good hand over the ginger's shoulders, "It's natural to be afraid of things that remind you of events you'd rather forget. I'd be worried if you hadn't shown up in the state you did, to be perfectly honest with you."

"It was ridiculous," Mycroft insisted, "Key word, was. I am not going to be upset and cry over it anymore. It's idiotic to get so upset over an _audio track_. I mean, good god, how did they even get their hands on it?"

"I don't know," the brunette replied quietly, "What I do know is that we need to get out of here, and quick. I heard them talking, and...well, needless to say, they don't plan on keeping us around too much longer."

"They're going to kill us. How original."

"This is serious, Mycroft."

"No, really? Death is serious? Alert the presses!"

A sharp smack on the back of the head silenced the government official, and he scowled. "Don't talk to me like that. I'm trying to help you." Anthea scolded, threading her fingers through Mycroft's ginger waves as an expression of apology. Mycroft relaxed under her gentle touches, but still bit back with a few choice words of his own.

"I'm sorry, who is paying whom here?"

"You are paying me," she replied, "But, I quit. Now I can say whatever I want."

"You can't quit. You're fired."

"Cool, now I can tell my friends I was tossed out on my arse by the British Government himself. If I had friends."

"I find it hard to believe that you are not constantly surrounded by people begging to interact with you."

"Well, I am, but most of them are drunk idiots, or the idiots we are forced to work with."

Mycroft sneered at this, then rested his hand on her left knee. "Whomever is annoying you, I can have them fired."

"You'd have no staff."

"Typical Anthea." he muttered, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"But really, can you fire all of them? And just to be safe, you should quit too."

"Oh, god,"

"Nope, just me," she smirked, tugging gently on a strand of ginger hair. "Enough fucking around; how do we get out of here?"

"Well, considering the door is locked, there are most likely armed guards everywhere, and this hospital is evidently still equipped with security cameras...we don't." Mycroft replied.

"There has to be some way out," Anthea murmured, practically pleading, "A window, a crack in the wall, _something_."

"If there was, I would have used my knowledge of it to escape before they tortured us," Mycroft snapped, "There is no way out. Either by some miracle of miracles we get rescued, or we die in here. I think you know the odds of both those things happening, and that you're not going to like the most probable outcome."

"The most probable outcome isn't always the one that winds up happening, Mycroft."

"For a genius, you certainly are naive."

Anthea sighed, exasperated, and scanned the room for any light. She could tell by the varying temperatures throughout the room that they were against an outside wall, which was a start.

"Do you know where we are?"

"St. Mary's Hospital," Mycroft said softly, rubbing at his sore hip, "It's been abandoned for years, it's set to be demolished soon."

"Perfect place for a hideout."

"Evidently."

"Can you tell how many floors up we are?"

"I would estimate most likely two."

"Damn."

"What?"

"When he was first in here, and turned on the light, I saw a covered-up window somewhere in here. I thought we'd be able to escape through it." she sighed, "But that point is moot if we're two floors up."

"We might still be able to get out. We might be horribly injured trying, but at least we'd be trying."

"Well, I'd have to find the window first."

"Do you remember where you saw it?"

"If I could see where it was, I would point it out."

"Well, how far up was it?"

"I could probably reach it if I sat on your shoulders." she murmured, "Can you walk?"

"With some difficulty," Mycroft replied, "But yes, and I could most likely keep you on my shoulders in five-minute intervals."

"Let's try it, then. Because really, what have we got to lose?"

***

"Not boring."

The thoroughly aggravating yet strangely comforting sound of Sherlock's baritone bounced off of the DI's eardrums, bathing his entire mind in a sudden calming sea of words and pitches.

"Explain." Sally rolled her eyes, "Not all of us speak freak."

Sherlock turned his head to glare at the young woman, then returned his attention to the body in front of him. "He's been dead since four this morning," the consulting detective yawned, "Stabbed to death, there was definitely a struggle. Slightly less boring than what we're dealing with currently in regards to my brother's disappearance, thankfully."

"Can you tell who killed him?" the DI pressed, ignoring Sherlock's blatant disrespect, not rising to take the bait.

"The same men involved in Mycroft's disappearance," Sherlock replied, "It's fairly obvious."

"Obvious to you, maybe," the DI muttered, "You're sure?"

"Am I ever _un_ sure?"

"Alright, alright," Greg sighed, "So what does 'freckles' mean?"

"It could be a password or something," John offered, "Maybe his email?"

"What would be the point of scratching such an easily guessed email password into a desk?" Sherlock said incredulously, "What's it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring."

"You've said that before," Greg snapped, "What does freckles mean?"

"Well, considering that this murder was committed by the same men who kidnapped my brother, and that my brother has freckles, it is possible that the two are related. I don't believe in coincidences."

"We all know that," Sally interrupted, "What does freckles mean?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated for a moment, then opened them and shook his head. "I have deleted most of Mycroft's and my childhood; freckles is not a phrase I remember hearing.

"Try to remember, Sherlock," Greg urged, "Please."

"I do not recall most of my childhood. I certainly do not recall the word freckles used in my childhood."

"Would your mum know?"

Sherlock's jaw clenched, just enough for John to notice. "Sherlock," he warned, "Watch yourself."

The consulting detective took a deep breath through his nostrils, and let it out slowly. "My mother did not care to think of Mycroft often, and most likely does not now. She does not know that he is missing."

Every head in the room turned to look at Sherlock. Hushed whispers of "Is he serious?" "She didn't?" "Well that explains a fuckton of things." and various other curious inquiries filled the room.

"Sherlock!" John hissed, "You didn't tell your mother?!"

"I was unaware that it was my job to make sure my mother knew of Mycroft's whereabouts every second of the day."

"It is your job to tell your mother that her son is missing!"

"Why? She is perfectly capable of reading a newspaper."

"Because it's the right thing to do, Sherlock!" John pressed his face into his hands and groaned.

Greg ignored the conversation between the two, instead focusing on Sherlock's first sentence. "What do you mean, she doesn't care to think of him?"

"Mummy despised Mycroft when he was a child, that I do remember. I haven't the faintest clue why, but it seems as if it must have been founded in something."

Everything suddenly clicked into place. Mycroft's awkward behaviours, his avoidance of personal questions; all were a result of insecurity instilled in him by his mother when he was a child. Greg tried to imagine a chubby ginger boy, likely bullied because of his appearance, coming home to a family that was not only indifferent to his suffering, but added to it. He shuddered at the thought of Mummy Holmes berating Mycroft for being overweight, or for his hair colour (which he knew for a fact Mycroft hated with a passion), or even for not living up to the standard set by herself and Father Holmes. 

Greg paused for a moment; he'd heard nothing about Sherlock and Mycroft's father, actually. Ever. He knew the man was dead, had been for several years, but other than that, he was drawing a complete blank. "Was it something to do with your father?" he asked finally, "Freckles, I mean."

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he tried to concentrate, to bring up any memories of his father that he had, however faint. After several minutes, he shook his head. "I do not recall having a father at home as a child."

"You deleted him, then?"

"If I did, there must have been good reason." Sherlock's tone was short, as if to say 'I'm finished with you'. Well, that was his perpetual tone, so Greg couldn't really be sure of his thoughts at the moment.

"Sally, take over here, would you?" the DI asked, "We have to go somewhere."

"Yes sir." the brunette woman replied, turning to bark out an order at a newer officer.

Greg nodded and left the room, John and Sherlock following close behind. "What are we doing?" John questioned, pulling off his gloves and tossing them into one of the waste bags. 

"We're going to pay a visit to Mrs. Holmes." the silver-haired man replied, buttoning up his coat as the three exited the door to the outside steps.

"I assume you mean _you_ are going to pay a visit to Mummy, because I am not going." Sherlock declared, rooting himself to the spot in which he was currently standing.

John turned to glare at the consulting detective. "Yes you are, Sherlock. She's _your_ mother, and Mycroft is _your_ brother. It's about bloody time you started taking some responsibility and informing her of Mycroft's disappearance."

"And why should I do that? As I have stated before, the fact that I am related to these people by blood does not mean that I am obligated to take care of them."

"Yes it does, actually."

"That's ridiculous. I'm not going." Sherlock refused, folding his arms. He looked not unlike a petulant five year old who'd just been denied his favourite dessert, Greg thought with a suppressed laugh.

"You are going if I have to drag you there myself," John said firmly.

"I'd like to see you try," Sherlock challenged, raising himself up to his full height (which was nearly ten inches taller than his partner) and glaring at the army doctor. John gave Sherlock a glare that could melt metal, grabbed his arm, and started dragging him towards the police cruiser parked directly in front of the stately brick building.

"Let me go!" Sherlock snapped as the unusually strong for his size doctor pulled him towards the car, Greg following behind them in amused silence.

"You're going to see your mother."

"I will not."

"You will."

"I'm not going to speak to her."

"Yes you will."

"I'm not going to be polite."

"Yes you fucking are."

"I'm not going to like it."

"That's just fine."

"...I hate you."

"Mhm." John opened the door to the cruiser and gestured into the backseat, which Sherlock reluctantly slid into. "You'll thank me for this when we find your brother."

 _"If we find him,"_ Greg thought, his stomach twisting itself into knots. _"If it isn't already too late."_


	14. Chapter 14

The majestic gate in front of the Holmes manor loomed over Greg's head, dark, complicated, cold; a perfect metaphor for the Holmes name, actually, he thought with a bit of embarrassment and self-consciousness. He reminded himself that no one could actually read his mind (though dating Mycroft was the next best thing) and that he was allowed to have slightly bitter thoughts about the woman, considering how she had allegedly treated Mycroft.

Allegedly. That was the little pesky word that kept digging itself into Greg's brain, repeating itself over and over. Sherlock had no reason to lie, of course, but somehow, judging by how emotionally constipated both the Holmes brothers were, it wasn't a stretch to think that their parents had been somewhat less than doting. He shuddered to think what Mycroft would say if he were standing next to Gregory, innocently reading his mind only to come up with the phrase 'emotionally constipated'. He would most likely faint, the DI thought with a slight smile; or he would just give the DI a Look. Not just any look, but a Look. That one special expression saved especially for Gregory, when he was being less-than-tactful in his behaviours or conversations. Greg never thought he'd miss it, Mycroft's Look, but here he stood, wishing for nothing more than to have his lover glaring at him.

Mycroft. To have Mycroft glaring at him. They weren't lovers anymore; he doubted they were friends, either. In fact, if or when they ever found Mycroft, Greg wasn't sure that the man would even look at him, and he didn't blame Mycroft one bit. He felt a wave of humiliation and shame wash over him; he'd been an idiot. A jealous idiot who jumped to conclusions. It wasn't entirely his fault, he tried to convince himself; he was still reeling from his wife cheating on him, and there _had_ been evidence that Mycroft was doing the horizontal tango with his assistant. Then again, Sherlock was absolutely right on at least four of his points; Mycroft wouldn't be stupid enough to let him see, Mycroft was gay (he'd proven this to the DI on many occasions), he wouldn't dare jeopardize his career for a simple fling with his assistant. 

And as for loving Greg...the DI wasn't exactly sure that he was loved by anyone, at that moment. Except maybe his daughter, though he hadn't seen her in nearly two weeks due to work and his and Mycroft's break-up. Secretly, he was almost glad he'd never introduced Mycroft to Madeleine. The little girl didn't take loss well as it was, and if Mycroft had been killed (god forbid) he would have extreme difficulty explaining it to a six-year-old. He doubted she even understood the concept of death, as was documented by her constantly asking about her hamster that had died. Greg had tried to explain that Duchess was no longer with them, but that she would live on in Madeleine's heart. The little girl had nodded and pretended to understand, (he knew she didn't, not really) but the DI still felt as if he'd failed her somehow. Which he knew was stupid, but still.

"Who is it?"

A soft, feminine voice wafted from the intercom next to the car, jolting him from his thoughts. Greg swallowed and cleared his throat, fiddling with his tie as he spoke.

"Uh...Yeah, this is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. I'm with Scotland Yard, and I'm here to see Mrs. Holmes."

"What about?"

The DI sighed, "It's about her son."

"What's Sherlock done now?"

"No, not Sherlock, Mycroft."

"Who?"

Both Greg and John visibly cringed; how awful of a relationship does one have to have with their mother that she doesn't even mention you in passing? "Her eldest son, Mycroft." John called, "You know, the one that works for the government."

"Sorry, I don't recall a Mycroft Holmes ever being mentioned. You say you're with the police?"

"Yes, I need to ask Mrs. Holmes a few questions regarding the case we are working on."

"Would you mind terribly holding up your badge for the camera, Detective Inspector?"

Greg was beginning to get very annoyed at this voice, but pulled his badge out of his coat pocket and held it up to the security camera six feet above his head. "Can you see it?"

After a few moments, the woman spoke again. "Yes, thank you, Inspector. I'll have Carl open the gate."

"Thank you."

"Good day, Inspector." A click signalled that she had turned the intercom off.

Greg turned to John with an expression of both horror and anger. "She didn't even mention she had two sons?!"

"That's wrong on so many fucking levels," John replied as the enormous metal gate creaked, then opened slowly. "I mean, god knows I'm not terribly fond of Mycroft, but for his own _mother_ to not even mention him is just-"

"I told you she despised Mycroft," Sherlock muttered, "From what I remember, he was somewhat of a difficult child."

"I don't believe that," the DI said, "I have a lot of trouble believing that. For one, if your mother thinks that you're a bloody angel, Mycroft must have been an absolute saint."

Sherlock scowled and stared out the window at the familiar grounds; there was a reason he didn't come back home often. His mother aggravated him, along with the entire pomp-and-circumstance lifestyle of the Holmes family. From what little he recalled, something about the grounds made him extremely uneasy, though he couldn't place his finger on just what it was. He shoved the instinct to run away deep down as they pulled up in front of the enormous manor, and pulled his scarf tighter around his neck. 

"I'm not going in," he muttered, watching Greg exit the car, "I don't have to tell her."

"Yes you do, Sherlock," John said firmly, opening his door and stepping out. "She is your mother, and Mycroft is your brother. You're going to tell her about Mycroft, and Lestrade is going to ask her some questions."

"What questions could you possibly have for my mother? She knows nothing about Mycroft's personal life." Sherlock questioned as they approached the large front doors to the stately brick house, "In fact, I doubt she even knows what he does for a living."

"You're really her precious baby, aren't you," Greg muttered, "Can't believe she'd ignore her own kid like that."

"Well, you can't really blame her. Mycroft's dreadful."

The DI turned around and glared at Sherlock. "Listen to me, you little smarmy prick," he spat, "Mycroft is not dreadful. If you gave a shit about him, of even spent any time with him, you'd know that he is anything but dreadful. He's brilliant, and honest to god, sweet when he wants to be. He cares about you more than he should, you know. He says caring isn't an advantage, and yet he cares about you, me, and the rest of this godforsaken fucking country more than anyone else ever will. He'd fucking die for you, and you have the nerve to stand here and call him dreadful? No wonder he has so many trust issues. I imagine he took excellent care of you when you were little, and you took advantage of him. 

You call him dreadful, do nothing but insult him and treat him like shit, and yet he still comes back for more. He still protects you, he still _loves_ you, and he still fucking cares. You should think long and hard the next time you want to insult him, because the only reason your arse isn't dead in some gutter somewhere is because of him. So shut the ever-loving _fuck_ up about your brother unless you have something nice to say about him. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Sherlock said nothing, but stared at the DI with something akin to both annoyance and respect. Finally, after a long, awkward silence, John spoke. "We should go inside, yeah?"

The DI and the consulting detective didn't say another word until they were all seated in the parlour, with Mummy Holmes sitting straight across from them.

**

"So, Detective Inspector...Lestrade, was it?" the voice of Mummy Holmes wafted over the coffee table, striking Greg's ears rather unpleasantly. She had a very high-pitched voice (something the DI had learned to despise since beginning work with the baritone-throated Holmes brothers), and something in it made his hair stand on end. She definitely wasn't the nurturing type, he judged by the lack of adequate family photographs in the room. He fondly remembered his own childhood home, with the hundreds of pictures littering the wall, professional and amateur alike. His mother had insisted upon bringing out the camera at every family function, to 'capture the memories'. They had all pretended to hate it, but if you knew the Lestrades well enough, you knew that they were all camera-hogs. Greg's favourite picture had been the professional one they'd taken for their Christmas card the year before David went to uni. They had all been seated around the kitchen table, smiling and laughing. The photographer had managed to capture the Lestrade family dynamic in one photo. Which reminded him, he really should go see mum and ask about the picture...

"Greg." John elbowed him in the side, "Mrs. Holmes asked you a question."

"Hm? Oh...sorry about that. I must have gotten distracted by your lovely home," the DI smiled, secretly praising himself for his quickness. The white-haired woman pursed her lips, nodding curtly; obviously this man wasn't all that familiar with her children, because anyone who was knew that she was even more observant than the two brothers put together. "You are here to tell me about Mycroft? What's the idiot done this time?"

_"Well. She certainly doesn't play games,"_ Greg thought with slight disgust. 

"Well...he's not really an idiot, Mrs. Holmes," the DI said politely, "But he has gone missing, and we believe he has been kidnapped."

"Kidnapped? Why would anybody kidnap Mycroft? I should think you'd have to pay someone to take him." she chuckled, "Oh, I do amuse myself."

Greg ignored her little jab at Mycroft, vowing to treat the man much better after seeing what his family was like. He could only imagine the Christmas dinners.

"I'm not really here to inform you of his disappearance, that's Sherlock's job," he said with a pointed glare at the sulking consulting detective, "I'm here to ask you if you know anything about the phrase 'freckles'."

"Freckles?" she mused, "Well, I seem to recall Sherlock had a little stuffed cat named Freckles when he was little. Oh, it was so cute!"

Sherlock let out a noise very close to a hiss, and John pinched him. "Do you happen to know if 'freckles' had to do with Mycroft?" the DI pressed, ignoring his colleagues' behaviour.

"Well, now that you bring it up, I do seem to remember that the other children used to tease Mycroft and call him 'freckles'. The boy had a face full of them, poor thing. Sherlock didn't, thank god. I don't think I could have handled two ginger and freckled children." a high-pitched laugh escaped her, and Greg came very close to cringing. He already didn't like the woman, but her constant insults and jabs toward Mycroft were pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

"Yes, ah...do you still have Freckles, by any chance? I'd like to have a look at it."

"Him." Sherlock grumbled, finally breaking his sulking silence, "Not it."

"Right," the DI said slowly, "Him. Do you still have him?"

"Of course," the woman chuckled, "I haven't gotten rid of any of my dear Sherlock's things. Sentiment and all that."

"Would you mind if I took him?"

"Not at all. Miranda!" Mrs. Holmes called, "Do bring out the box labeled 'Sherlock, age six, month eight', would you?"

A faint "Yes, ma'am," could be heard from down the hall, and Greg shuddered. "I would have gone and gotten him," he said, almost apologetically, "You don't have to bother the others."

"The _staff_ ," she practically hissed, "It's their job."

"Alright, alright. Sorry." the DI muttered, "Thank you for letting us take him, by the way. And...do you really have stuff labelled like that? With Sherlock's name and the date and everything?"

"Of course I do. What good mother wouldn't want to catalogue her son's life?"

"Uh...right," he chucked nervously, "Ah...Do you have anything of Mycroft's? You know, for evidence and such."

Mummy Holmes narrowed her eyes at the DI over her teacup. "Not too many, I'm afraid," she murmured, calculating her next move, "He practically begged me to get rid of all the pictures. Pity, really. He despised the way he looked."

"...right," Greg replied, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling at the woman and mustering up his courage (he didn't know why he was afraid of her, to be honest, but it was something in her eyes..), "Well, actually-"

"Here you are, Mrs. Holmes."

A feminine voice made the trio of men look up from their teacups (well, two of them, as Sherlock had pushed his aside several minutes previously), and John swallowed. A tall, dark-haired woman stood behind Mummy Holmes, holding a rather large box that seemed enormous in her small hands. "Mrs Holmes," she said softly, "The box you asked for."

"Yes, thank you," the woman smiled, "You have heard of my son, Sherlock and his colleague John. This is detective inspector Lestrade, who-...What relation do you have with Sherlock, Inspector?"

"Well, he and I are colleagues down at the Yard, but my main relationship is with Mycroft." the DI replied, feeling a little braver. 

"Mycroft? Whatever would you want to do with Mycroft? Has he roped you into one of his ridiculous bureaucratic schemes again?" she chuckled, an edge in her voice, "What could you _possibly_ want with _Mycroft_?"

"He's my boyfriend," Greg replied defiantly, standing up to take the box from Melissa's hands, startling the brunette. "And I would really appreciate if you stopped making comments about him like that. There's nothing wrong with him, I like him better than I like Sherlock."

"Hmph." the older woman scoffed, "I would prefer you not speak to me that way in your own home, _Inspector_. And really, you could do much better than Mycroft, let's be completely honest here."

"Yes, _let's_ ," Greg spat, fire in his eyes, "You seem to favour Sherlock over Mycroft for some reason that I do not understand. Even if he was a difficult child, which I _highly_ doubt, there is no reason for you to be such a complete cow about it. Mycroft is lovely, and brilliant, and fuck it, I love him. So stop speaking about him as if he's some sort of loser."

" _Inspector_!" the female Holmes cried in horror, "I think it's high time you-"

Greg's phone chose that exact moment to ring, and he pulled it out of his pocket, ignoring the still-talking Holmes and the fact that Sherlock and John were slowly sneaking away. "What?!" he cried into the receiver.

"We found a match for that shoe print," Donovan's voice sounded tired, with a hint of surprise at the DI's obvious anger. "Is everything-"

"Fine," he snapped, "You have a match?"

"Yes. Men's boots, combat boots to be specific. Issued by the Russian army, standard...but they're twenty years old."

"Twenty years? What the hell..."

"It seems like whoever was involved in the kidnapping wears size 47 shoes issued by the Russian army, that are also twenty years old. That narrows it down considerably, I think."

"Good," the DI replied, slight relief calming him. "I'll be down there in a few. Just leaving."

"Where are you?"

"Hell." he hung up, then turned to glare at Mummy Holmes, defiance on his face. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Holmes. I sincerely hope we find your son."

The woman didn't answer, instead glaring at the DI with a sneer not unlike Mycroft's. Greg shuddered, returning her glare, his eyes flashing, then turned on his heel and stalked after Sherlock and John, leaving the female Holmes in stunned silence.

"The hell is wrong with people," John muttered as the DI caught up with them, "How the hell can she treat her own kid like that? Rubs me the wrong way."

"I know, she's a cow. No offense, Sherlock," Greg replied, nodding at the sulking consulting detective, "Doesn't matter. We got what we came for."

"True. What's so special about that cat, anyway?"

"We'll find out soon enough. I'll drive." 

**

"Mrs. Holmes!" 

The female Holmes straightened her back upon hearing the thick Russian accent speaking her name, then turned her head to look at her head housekeeper (he'd lasted four months, a record in her book), "Nikolas," she said, surprised, "What are you doing here? You don't have to be here for another two hours."

"I heard you were having company, and I thought you might need me to have the place cleaned a bit first," the blonde replied, transitioning seamlessly between his usual air of anger and cruelty into the sweet, docile housekeeper his captive's mother knew him as. "Are they here yet?"

"They've just left. It was my Sherlock and his friend. And another man, one I found to be rather rude." she replied, "Clear off the table, would you?"

"Of course, ma'am," Nikolas said dutifully, taking up the saucers and teacups with a gentleness unseen by many. "If I'm not being too bothersome, what did they want?" he asked coolly, careful to keep any strong emotion out of his voice. If the brat and his friends had shown up, they'd obviously wanted to ask the woman some questions; the question was, what did they ask her?

"Oh, they just wanted an old box of Sherlock's things." she said nonchalantly, standing up and striding out of the room, her expensive heels clicking against the hardwood flooring in the corridor. "Something about freckles."

Nikolas dropped the dishes and cups in his hands, the expensive china shattering on the coffee table, the clatter bringing Mummy Holmes dashing back into the parlour. "Nikolas!"

"Deepest apologies, Mrs. Holmes," the blonde said softly, his mind whirring, "I'm afraid you just startled me is all. I'll clean this up immediately; again, my sincerest apologies for the mess."

"It...it's alright," the white-haired woman replied, "I had no idea that something like this would startle you."

"Oh, it wasn't the message itself, it was just your voice. I'm afraid I'm a bit clumsy, is all. I'm a bit of a lummox, if you hadn't noticed." he chuckled, with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Mummy Holmes stepped back, slightly uneasy.

"Yes..of course. Well, I'll leave you to that, then." she said finally as she turned away and left the room, shaking her head slightly.

Nikolas waited until the woman he was extremely displeased to call 'boss' left the room. His face twitched, and he slammed his fist down on the coffee table, exclaiming several colourful swear words in his native tongue. He pulled out mobile and quickly dialed the number of his head subordinate, barking orders into the receiver in a jumbled mix of Russian and English, the gist of which w his as:

"We've run out of time. Prepare them, and keep them until I get there. It ends now."


	15. Chapter 15

"Damn it, Mycroft!" Anthea hissed as she was accidentally bumped into a wall (again), "I said _two_ steps forward, not four! You ran my face right into the wall again." 

"Alright, alright!" the government official snapped, stepping back from the wall, being careful not to drop his assistant. "You do realize I can't see a thing, right? We're lucky I haven't walked us down into the pits of hell by now."

Anthea couldn't help but chuckle at Mycroft's bad attempt at a joke, then sighed. "Let's try again, this time...Hey, wait!" she exclaimed as Mycroft stepped back from the wall, causing her to lose her balance. "I'm going to-"

"I've got you." Mycroft reassured her, shifting his weight in various directions until Anthea regained her balance. 

"Thank you," she replied, "Now be careful..."

"Says the woman whose bony heels are digging quite painfully into my shoulders," Mycroft grimaced, "You really should look into treatment for whatever bone growth that is." 

"Oh, shut up, Mycroft," Anthea muttered, running her hands over the wall, the stone cold enough to cause the stumps of her fingers to scream in pain. "I think this is the wall. Four steps to the left." she commanded, ignoring the pain in her hand and wrist.

"Your steps or my steps?" he asked, uncomfortably shifting a bit under Anthea's weight. She was light, yes, but he wasn't extremely strong to begin with. He blamed his job for his eating habits and inactivity, but he knew in reality he was just a tad bit lazy when it came to exercise. "Because there is no one 'step' as a unit of measurement, so I need to be sure what you-"

"Damn it, just _walk_!" she hissed, glaring down at him with flashing eyes she knew he couldn't see. She was almost glad they were immersed in darkness, as it ensured that Mycroft couldn't see up her skirt. Not that he would ever do so (the man was painfully polite, so much so that it often annoyed his PA), but she still had terrible memories of her school bullies trying to catch a glimpse. It had only gotten worse as she aged, with men constantly catcalling after her and trying to get her to sleep with them. After she began working for the government and carrying her gun, however, the catcalls and whoops had been replaced by quiet whispers and standoffishness. Which she didn't really mind, as she wasn't interested in dating at the moment, but it was still rather pleasant to not have to deal with the stupidity of the opposite sex on a regular basis. Well, she still had to deal with peoples' stupidity, but at least she got paid a damn good salary for doing so.

"Fine!" Mycroft took two careful steps to the left. "Far enough?"

"I said two, not four," she retorted, blindly feeling along the wall for the window. "I found the little tube thing I was telling you about, we're getting close."

"Thank god," Mycroft murmured, shifting the woman slightly. "Okay?"

"Perfect." she replied, smiling. "Almost... _Damn it!_ " she swore as her hand slammed into the windowsill. "Fucking fuck!"

"What?"

"I slammed my hand into the fucking wall, ow." she groaned, shaking her good hand, "Oh, god, that hurt...."

"Is there anything I can-"

"No. Just give me a minute," she bit her lip, feeling around for the bottom of the window. "Almost got it..."

"Tell me again how we're going to get out of here by climbing out a window several stories above the ground?"

"Working on that," Anthea replied, letting out a shout of triumph as her fingers found the window.

"Shut up!" Mycroft hissed, "Do you want them to-"

Footsteps outside in the corridor interrupted the government official's sentence, and all the colour drained from his face. "Shit," he murmured, "Damn it."

"You're swearing," she whispered, "You must be rather angry."

"Get down," he murmured, "Now."

The brunette did as she was told, quickly jumping down from the man's shoulders, allowing him to catch her under the arms so she didn't break her ankles when she hit the floor. "Do you think they heard us?" she whispered, fear tainting her voice.

"I don't know," Mycroft replied, listening carefully, "I don't think so. Get on the floor."

The pair had just barely made it back into their previous positions on the floor before the door opened, blinding them both with a bright, white light.

"Get up," a higher-pitched voice commanded, "Sir has given us orders to bring you downstairs."

"For what?" Anthea questioned, her eyes quickly adjusting to the light, "What does he want now? Is he going to lop off my leg? Would you ask him if he'd let me decide what he lops off this time, as I'm rather fond of my remaining fingers."

"Up. Now." 

Suddenly there was a gun in Anthea's face, and her mind went blank. She had trained for this, she _knew_ what to do, but fear had paralyzed her, and she couldn't bring herself to fight back. Instead, she murmured an "Alright.." in a small voice, silently praying to whoever would listen that they would be rescued.

The man smiled, a dark smile, and motioned for her to stand and follow him. She took Mycroft's hand, and together they were half-pushed, half-led down the corridor to an unknown destination that Anthea could only help wouldn't be their final destination.

***

"So what's so special about Freckles?"

John's voice echoed throughout the small, empty room as Greg set the unusually heavy box down on the examination table, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

"I don't know," the silver-haired man admitted, "Sherlock...what _was_ so special about Freckles?"

"Nothing. He's a stuffed cat. Stuffed cats aren't known for their significance in kidnapping investigations." Sherlock replied, picking at the back of his hand. He seemed bored by the whole thing, and (as far as Greg and John could see) was unaffected by the way his mother had spoken about his brother. Greg and John honestly didn't know why they were surprised anymore, but it was still shocking to them to see Sherlock being so cold; it wasn't natural, to care this little about one's own family, even if they had been as horrid as the Holmes' seemed to be.

"Right," the DI said briskly, "Do you mind if we cut him open, see what's inside?"

Sherlock gave the DI a glare that would melt metal, and the silver-haired man stepped back. "Alright, alright," he grumbled, "Can I at least...squish him or something? To see if there's anything inside?"

The consulting detective paused for a moment, then nodded slowly, several of his curls falling into his eyes. He didn't bother combing them back, instead allowing the waves to cover his brilliantly bright irises; he needed a haircut, John noted.

Greg carefully lifted the lid from the box, coughing slightly at the light cloud of dust that rose from the cardboard lid.

"Christ," John coughed, "How old is that thing?"

"Twenty years," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

"Rhetorical question," Greg muttered without looking at the consulting detective. He paused, then turned his head. "Wait...if your mum packed this box twenty years ago, and you're thirty-six...you kept the cat out until you were sixteen?"

Sherlock flushed slightly, then shook his head. "My dates were off. I must have forgotten."

"You don't forget anything," the DI chuckled, reaching down into the box to pull out the cat. His hand came into contact with several hundred little pieces of metal along with the stuffie. "What the-?"

"What the hell are those?" John murmured, leaning over to stare into the box, "They look like..."

"Bugs. Recording devices." Greg said incredulously, "Look at them all...There must be hundreds of 'em...Bloody hell..."

"What the hell would she be doing with all of these?" John questioned, picking up one of the little devices.

"I'm not sure they're hers," the DI said slowly, "Sherlock...?"

"As I said, I do not remember most of my childhood, and I do not recall any bugs in our house." the brunette said in a clipped tone, his boredom quickly returning.

"Did your family have any enemies that might want to hurt her?"

"Judging by the amount of pompous garbage my mother has hanging from her walls, my father was a government official. He died when I was sixteen."

"Mycroft would have been twenty-three," the DI mused, "When did he start working in the government?"

"He was twenty-six before he was doing anything worthwhile. And, in any event, the sheer number of these devices suggests that they were planted long before I was even born."

"Christ," John murmured, "You think someone was spying on your Da?"

"They were all spying on him, most likely. The amount of money we had growing up suggests he was corrupt." Sherlock replied, playing with one of the recording devices."Though he was too clever to let them catch him."

"Obviously," John muttered, "No offense to Sherlock's reminiscing, but running the audio would probably be a much better way to spend our time."

Greg rolled his eyes, then pulled out his phone and sent a quick text. "IT should be here in a bit to pull the audio from them. In the meantime, let's see what the hell is going on with this cat."

The three men stared at the small cat on the examination table. It was old, and tattered, and torn in places, but it still resembled a mildly realistic cat. The little orange stuffie sat innocently on the cold metal, its black, plastic eyes staring blankly up at Greg. He shuddered (the thing was damn creepy; he could see why Sherlock would be so fond of it), then reached out to pick it up, running his fingers over the matted fur and bald spots. "What are you hiding, little guy," he murmured, pressing down on the cat's fur, not knowing what he was looking for. His fingers came into contact with something hard, and he drew them back on instinct.

"There's something in it...him," he murmured, "We have to cut him open."

Sherlock stared at the DI for a moment, expression unchanged. 

"It's for your brother, Sherlock." Greg said, exasperated.

Sherlock's expression remained a mixture of annoyance and defiance.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. John, give me a damn scalpel." Greg snapped, glaring at Sherlock.

"Will do," the army doctor replied (ignoring the silver-haired man's outburst), handing the DI the tool he had asked for.

"Thanks," he murmured, pressing the scalpel into the cat's fur and running it down its chest. Sherlock made a disapproving noise as a plume of white stuffing popped out of the hole the DI had made in the fabric, and a small, silver device became visible inside the cat. "What's this, then?" Greg muttered, carefully tugging the piece of metal out of the cat. "It looks like-"

"Another bug," Sherlock interrupted, "But it's different than the others. The devices in the box are all more than ten years old. This is a recent model, only put out last year."

"Someone bugged her place recently," John murmured, "But why?"

"It's obvious," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Both John and Greg turned to glare at the consulting detective, who resumed rolling his eyes. "Oh, for god's sake," he muttered, "The device was obviously planted so that whomever planted it could listen in on Mummy and possibly gain information about Mycroft, since planting a bug on my brother is next to impossible. Since the cat was in a box with these bugs, we can only assume that whoever planted the bug inside Freckles has the audio from several of the bugs, possibly all of them. That audio was most likely used to blackmail Mycroft into going along with whatever his kidnappers said, as he usually would not put up with any sort of misbehaviour."

"Mycroft Holmes has no time for your bullshit," Greg muttered under his breath. Sherlock and John both turned to look at him, quizzical expressions on their faces. The DI turned bright red. "I ah...he said it once, when we were on the phone, and I was having a bad day. I'd told him I'd always pictured him saying it to people who annoyed him. It was an in-joke."

"I fail to see how that's a joke, but if you say so," Sherlock shrugged, "Mycroft has never been known to swear, however."

Greg rolled his eyes, and was about to reply, when two of the IT employees showed up in the doorway. "Inspector Lestrade?" The shorter, male employee asked, "You need us to pull audio from something?"

"Yeah, all these," Greg gestured to the box, "But this one should go first." He held up the little silver bug, then tossed it to the older woman standing behind the man who had been speaking (for the life of him, he couldn't remember their names). 

"Sure," the woman murmured, picking up the box and pushing her half-grey, half-brown hair behind her ears, "How soon do you need it?"

"Uh...as soon as you can get it to me, I guess." the DI said sheepishly; he hadn't thought about the timeframe. "It's for a kidnapping case."

"On it," she replied, giving the trio a nod. "Come on, Ed."

"It's Edward," the dark-haired man grumbled, following after the well-built female. 

"Thanks...uh..." Greg bit the inside of his cheek, praying that the woman's name would come to him.

"Nadia. Nice try, Inspector." she chuckled, "I'll have this back to you within the hour. Can you hang on that long?"

"I don't really have a choice, do I?" Greg said softly.

"Not really. But I can have everybody else drop what they're doing to rip the audio from the rest of them while I wait for this one to transfer."

"Would you?"

"Of course. I'll get right on it. C'mon, Ed."

" _Edward_." the man said indignantly, "It's Edward."

"That's what I said," Nadia rolled her eyes. "Ed. Come on."

Edward was about to protest, but decided against it, instead following the older woman down the corridor and down the stairs to their shared office.

***

"What are you going to do?" Anthea asked in a small voice as she was shoved into a well-lit, large room. It was an empty basement, she realized; cold, damp, no tools for them to use to get away, and the perfect place for a killing. No, not a killing. She couldn't think that, she had to stay strong for Mycroft....she had to...

"Stupid woman," one of the three men chuckled, "I think you already know the answer to that."

"No, I don't. Spell it out for me." She was rather brave, she realized; they could blow either of their heads off at any time, and here she was making snarky comments.

"I'll let the Boss explain it to you," the man snarled, cocking the gun, "And I suggest you shut up before I blow your fucking head off."

Anthea swallowed, then nodded, quietly stewing about the irony of it all. She and Mycroft used to be the ones to do this, to threaten those who threatened their country, or each other. She remembered the third time she'd ever ridden in a car with Mycroft Holmes, it had ended in a shootout, with two of the would-be assassins dead. She remembered the adrenaline rush, the feeling of power as she squeezed the trigger over and over again, her blood pumping in her ears harder than a timpani drum. Everything had gone by in slow motion, and she'd performed brilliantly, alongside her boss. That was the very first time she'd ever felt like they were any more than employee and boss. They'd shared something that day, and she had liked to think it was the first step towards the realm of friendship for them. They'd come out of the ordeal shaking, sweating, and covered in both gunpowder and blood, but they'd made it. It seemed completely unfair (and it was) that she and Mycroft were likely to die at the hands of these people.

"Good girl. We'll be back, don't worry. And when Nikolas gets here, we're going to have some fun." 

The trio left the lights on and slammed the door behind them, leaving the pair of petrified government workers frozen where they stood, bathed in an eerie, white light.


	16. Chapter 16

Greg paced nervously up and down the hallway outside Nadia's office, tugging at his greying hair; he was so close to a break in the case, he could _feel_ it. Sherlock and John were both standing off to the side, and he'd texted Donovan to get down there as soon as she was able so they could organize their next move. Whether that be a raid on a location that would somehow be revealed in this audio, or simply briefing everyone about the new evidence, or whatever else; he didn't know. He didn't care, really. All he cared about at the moment was making absolutely goddamn sure that the evidence he was about to get was acquired as quickly and efficiently as possible.

_"You're pacing up and down like a complete moron,"_ his subconscious mocked him, _"It isn't bloody likely they'll be done anytime soon. Go eat something. Sleep. When was the last time you actually slept in a bed?"_

He didn't know. He'd been sleeping mainly at his desk, in one of the pandas, or on one of the couches scattered about inside the Yard. Even before Mycroft's disappearance, he hadn't been sleeping properly, mostly ignoring the need to sleep in favour of drinking and reflecting on everything in his life that had gone wrong. He'd even gone so far as to call up his ex-wife to try and talk to her about his problems, and that was really saying something; he'd never been so desperate as to call her about things like this, but he honestly didn't know where else to turn. She'd been less than understanding about the fact that he couldn't take their daughter that week, complaining about how it would interfere with her vacation to wherever-the-hell-it-was with what's-his-name. He knew he should probably at least learn the man's name, especially if he was going to be interacting with Madeleine, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

Madeleine. He'd been completely ignoring her for nearly two weeks. Well, not completely ignoring her, as there had been a phone call or two, just to let her know that 'Daddy was busy with a case', which she bought, thank god. He despised lying to his little girl, but it was better than admitting the truth. What was the truth, exactly? That her father was a jealous, judgemental idiot with the tendency to try to drink his problems away? That he had stopped sleeping, eating, and living, really, for the sole purpose of finding a lover who might never want to see him again, if he was capable of seeing at all? The lies were much easier to stomach than the truth, he realized, as most lies were.

_"Now you're getting it,"_ the little voice mocked, _"It's much better that you didn't introduce him to Maddie. You know how she gets when the subject of death pops up."_

The DI reached up to bite at one of his knuckles nervously; Mycroft wasn't dead. He wasn't. He couldn't be...

"Inspector."

Nadia's slightly gravelly voice caught his attention, and he glanced up to look at her, only catching a glimpse of her hair inside the room. She was looking in his general direction, but also typing what sounded like a hundred characters a minute. "We're almost finished." she said, turning back to her computer.

He nodded, then sighed; he knew that both Nadia and Edward were brilliant (Nadia had been with the Yard longer than he had), and that they'd do everything in their power to get the extracted audio to him as fast as possible, but he still worried, understandably so. Mycroft could possibly be injured, or worse. 

_"No, not worse. Shut up."_ he scolded himself, _"He'll be fine, we just have to rip the audio, and then..."_

_"And then what?"_ The little voice wasn't going anywhere, he realized with disgust. _"You might not get to him in time. It's been days. He isn't coming back. They haven't even demanded a ransom. You know what that means, they trained you to recognize it. He's dead. Say it with me: dead."_

_"No...it isn't true. Myc's alive. I know it."_ the DI retorted in his head, chewing on the skin of his bottom lip. _"He's a tough old bastard, he'll be fine. He has to be...He can't be dead, he can't...He isn't..."_

_"He is,"_ the little voice taunted, _"You know what the logical outcome of this is. The kidnappers didn't ask for a ransom. That means either there were no kidnappers, or the only thing they planned on doing was killing Mycroft. Use your head, Greg."_

_"Shut up,"_ he pleaded silently, biting his cheek hard enough to pierce the skin with his canine teeth. _"He's coming back. They're both coming back."_

"Inspector, we're ready." Nadia's low-pitched, slightly rough voice sounded from the doorway for the second time. The DI turned his head, a little too quickly, pulling a muscle in his neck. "Shit!" he exclaimed, "Oh...Sorry." His cheeks flushed a light pink, and Nadia rolled her eyes. 

"You do realize that I've worked with coppers much longer than you, Inspector. I've heard and done my share of swearing." she chuckled, "And we've managed to get the audio off of all but four of the devices, and those were too old to be relevant anyway. They're old, very old, the black devices. Some of them are more than twenty-five years old, which is odd, since Mr. Holmes' father died before this silver one was even planted. That one is this year's model, and it isn't like the others. It's a live transmitter; the others were not unlike miniature tape recorders, set to be removed from the residence at regular intervals. And," she took a breath, "The silver device? It's still transmitting."

"Still...wait, does that mean...?" John's eyes widened, "They can hear us." he said quietly. "They can hear everything."

"Let them hear," the DI snapped, "If you can hear this, you miserable fuckwads, I'm coming for you. That's a promise." he turned back to Nadia. "Can you really trace the signal to get their location?" Greg demanded. This wasn't only a break, this could crack the case wide open, he realized with a growing sense of hope and possibly even relief; Mycroft could be alive. He might be able to save him.

"Well, I-"

"Can you trace the signal?!"

"If you would let me fucking finish," the woman snapped, "Yes, I can. It will take a bit of time, though. If I were you, I'd organize your officers to prepare for an investigation."

"Fuck that," John piped up, "If you can find where the signal is going, I say we launch a full raid and drive the miserable bastards out like the roaches they are."

"We can't do that," Greg said, exasperated, "We have to get a warrant to search the grounds, if we even learn _where_ the signal is going, and even then, it could take days to get a proper team going. We're _fucked_! We're just-"

"Stop!" Nadia shouted, "For god's sake, I don't even have the audio yet! Calm down."

"How am I supposed to calm down?!" the DI roared, whirling around to face her, "My lover/ex-boyfriend/I don't even fucking _know_ anymore could be dead in a ditch somewhere, and the last fucking thing I ever said to him was 'You bastard. I knew it.' How the _fuck_ am I supposed to calm down?! His brother doesn't give a shit, his mum's a fucking cow, and you lot don't seem to realize that he is going to _die_ unless we find him, unless he's already dead, in which case this whole thing is a waste of time!" Greg began to pace back and forth angrily, clenching his fists; these people should _know_ how to handle this case, they should _know_ everything he knew. He was suddenly very aware of what it must feel like to be a Holmes, to be smarter than everyone you came in contact with.

"Whoever kidnapped him and Anthea didn't leave any evidence, save for that fucking shoe print. They haven't asked for a ransom, they haven't even tried to _contact_ us, and we all know that only means one thing. We. Are. Fucked." he finished, breathing heavily. He hated to yell (though it seemed like he'd been doing a lot of it lately) but this was just ridiculous.

The room fell silent, Greg's last words echoing throughout the corridor; none of them had ever heard the DI so full of hatred and rage. In all honesty, it was quite terrifying. 

"Not necessarily," came a familiar voice from behind him, "We still have the possibility of finding their location. That's something."

Greg whirled around to face the young woman. "It's nothing," he muttered, "If Mycroft is already dead."

"Inspector Lestrade," she said with more authority than was strictly necessary, "You seem to forget that his PA was also kidnapped, and could very well be dead. Her family's concerns are no more legitimate than yours, yet you seem intent on only focusing on Mycroft's possible death. You've become too emotionally invested in this case, and if you don't pull your head out of your arse, I'm going to request you be taken off the case."

"You can't do that! I can-"

"No." Sally held up her hand, "Look at yourself. Just _look_!"

The DI turned to look at his reflection in the window of Nadia's office, squinting his eyes against the light reflecting off the glass. He looked haggard, exhausted. His hair stuck up in every direction, and a fresh crop of wrinkles had appeared what seemed like overnight. He looked twenty years older than he was, and it shocked him; he knew he had experienced a rough few weeks, but he had no idea what this level of stress could do to his outward appearance. He stared at the window, in disbelief that the man staring back was actually him.

"I...what...?" he murmured, taking a step back.

"See," Donovan said, in a much softer tone than before, "You see what you've done to yourself?"

"I...yeah," the DI muttered incredulously, "Wow..."

Donovan opened her mouth to reply, but a loud exclamation interrupted her before she could speak. "I've got it!"

"Got what, Ed?" Nadia questioned, turning her head and raising a questioning eyebrow. 

Greg felt his stomach clench at the movement, a shudder creeping up his back; it reminded him so much of Mycroft. Then again, everything reminded him of Mycroft these days. Whenever he caught a glimpse of a designer suit, a flash of auburn hair, or a dark umbrella, his heart automatically soared with the hope that it could, in fact, be Mycroft. He was always disappointed, and after every encounter, he would sink deeper and deeper into despair. Sometimes he wondered if he wouldn't have been better off never dating Mycroft. At least that way, if he were dead, the DI would be nowhere near as wounded as he would be if he were to learn of Mycroft's death now. And Anthea's, he reminded himself; he always forgot about Anthea, and he hated it. He owed the woman an apology. He owed both of them an apology, actually. Fuck it, he owed everyone who had had the (probable) displeasure of interacting with him in the past two weeks an apology. 

"The signal! I've found it!" he whispered, covering the bug with his hand. "I've found it," he repeated.

"Where the fuck is it?!" the DI demanded, hope once again swelling in his chest; it was possible. Mycroft could be alive. He could be unharmed, or at the very least, not severely harmed, though the DI knew this was most likely a false hope. Let's face it, if one was kidnapped and missing for several days without the kidnappers asking for a ransom, it was never a good sign. His police training had taught him that. But somewhere deep inside the dark recesses of his mind, he still held the hope that Mycroft and Anthea were safe, or had perhaps even escaped (Mycroft was incredibly brilliant, after all, and he knew every building in London better than those who had constructed them.

"St. Mary's hospital. The old one, the one that's set to be knocked down next year," Edward chattered excitedly, "It's transmitting to a computer inside the building."

"St. Mary's hospital," the DI repeated, his entire body going numb; that was where the signal was going, which meant that was where the kidnappers most likely were. And if the kidnappers were in that old, abandoned dump of a hospital, then he would bet his next decade's salary on the guess that Mycroft was there as well. "You're sure? You're absolutely sure?"

"Yes," the young IT worker replied, scooping up his laptop and turning the screen toward Greg. A small dot in the center a well-detailed map blinked rapidly, showing the exact location of the receiving end of the transmission from the audio bug. "That's it."

"That's it," Greg echoed, "That...oh my god, that's it..." He felt something akin to giddiness building in his chest, and his face broke into a smile. "That's it!" he exclaimed, "That's it! That's where he is!"

"Obviously." Sherlock muttered, seeming completely uninterested in the whole business, though there was a hint of relief in his voice as well. He'd never admit it, but there was.

"Sherlock, even you couldn't ruin this," the DI smirked, "Oi, let's get a team together, yeah? Donovan, get everything together, let's get moving."

The brunette woman stared at him for a moment, in disbelief that Greg had switched so rapidly from horribly dejected and angry to laughing and actually _smiling_. Sally couldn't recall the last time she had seen the man smile this way. Well, she could, but it seemed like it had been years since she'd laid eyes on the trademark Lestrade grin.

"Sally," Greg pressed, "Please."

She took a breath, nodded, then allowed herself a small grin. "I've had a team prepared since Mycroft first went missing," she muttered, a blush rising in her cheeks momentarily. "But be cautious, Inspector Lestrade," she warned, "This could be dangerous."

"Good," the DI replied, pulling out his cell phone and firing off several texts, one after another, "Let's go."


	17. Chapter 17

"Do you ever think about it?" Anthea questioned, reaching out her hand to smooth Mycroft's tousled hair, which was beginning to look very much like a bird's nest. She shuddered to think what her own must look like.

"Think about what?" Mycroft asked, swallowing the little moisture that was left in his mouth in an attempt to quell the horrid hunger pangs currently tearing through his already sensitive stomach. He didn't know how the acid hadn't eaten him up inside by now, he hadn't eaten in god-knows-how-long.

"What happens after," she said softly, "After all...this." She waved her hand in the air, gesturing all around them. "Do you ever wonder if there's anything after? Or is this all there is?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows; philosophical discussions with Anthea were nothing new, but this was the first time he'd ever been asked that question in this context.

"You're speaking of what happens after we die," he replied, "What do I think about the notion of the afterlife?"

Anthea nodded, resting her chin in her hands. "You know," she sighed, "I don't know what to think anymore. I mean, yeah, God isn't real, you and I both know that, but...do you ever wonder if we might be wrong?"

"Not really," Mycroft said, sliding over towards his assistant and slipping an arm around her shoulders. "I don't think there's a God, no...but there could be an afterlife." It was true, he didn't know; he could very well be wrong about the entire notion of religion as a whole, but he'd never given it very much thought until now. He definitely didn't believe in any deities, that was for sure, but the notion of an afterlife didn't seem far-fetched to him, oddly enough.

"How do you figure?"

"Well," he began, "In the infinite number of galaxies and universes that are contained in this thing we call existence, I suppose it is illogical to be completely against the idea of any kind of afterlife. But I believe the question you ask is deeper than that." 

_"Stop talking like fucking Shakespeare and just say what you mean."_ his little inner voice mocked him. He swallowed, trying to ignore the voice. _"Anthea's here,_ he thought in retaliation, _"And she likes me. A lot. Even if I do talk like Shakespeare sometimes. So there, little voice."_

"Do I believe that there is a deity waiting for us with harps and wings and singing on clouds? No," he said, "But I do think that there must be something. Look at us, for example."

"What about us?" Anthea questioned, slipping both arms around Mycroft's waist and resting her head on his shoulder (when did he become the strong one?).

"Well, consider this," he murmured, "You and I, we came from completely different walks of life. Different ideals, different families, different worlds. And yet, you made the decision to stay with me, even after everything. My emotional instability, the panic attacks, the nightmares...everything. You still chose to stay. Why?"

"Because..." she paused; she really didn't know. Anyone else would have made the decision to say 'thanks, but no thanks' to the job offer (even with the benefits that came with it), but she had chosen to stay, to put herself in danger every single day for this man. "Well," she murmured, "I suppose I stayed because I felt compelled to. I know it seems stupid, but you seemed like you...needed me."

"That is a fair assumption to make, considering I do need you," Mycroft chuckled, "In case you hadn't noticed, I very much need you."

"You don't, not really," she said softly, reaching up to brush another errant strand of hair from Mycroft's forehead. "Get a haircut," she snickered, "You're starting to look shaggy."

"I do not look shaggy," Mycroft replied indignantly, "I'll have you know that my hair is trimmed every six weeks, as is the norm."

"Yes, I'm aware. I'm the one who cuts it," she laughed and hugged him tighter, wincing slightly as the slice on her forearm protested. "You shed."

"I do not shed!" Mycroft felt a blush rise in his cheeks, "You realize I am forty-five, and it is natural for me to lose a bit of hair at this age."

"Yes, I'm well aware, old man," the brunette teased, ruffling Mycroft's hair. "Thirsty?"

"Hm?"

"There's a sink in the corner. Judging by the lack of buildup around the drain, it's been recently used. Which means it works."

"You've known that there was water over in that corner, and you didn't think to mention it while my stomach was eating my spine?"

"Nope."

He rolled his eyes and sneered, though the expression quickly left his face as another hunger pang struck him. He nodded his affirmation, and Anthea returned the nod, standing up on unsteady legs and padding over towards the sink. "No cups," she stated, "Time to drink like a common person."

"The horror," Mycroft muttered, standing up and limping towards Anthea (his knee had begun to bother him from lack of movement). "This will not be very pleasant."

"Would you rather go thirsty?" she remarked, turning on the tap and leaning down to drink, her hair flopping unashamedly into the rapidly expanding pool of water at the bottom of the sink. Mycroft reached forward to hold her hair back, and she made an encouraging noise between slurps of water. "Can we please hurry this up, I believe my spine has been devoured, and it's now eating my kidneys."

"Keep your shirt on," the woman muttered, "Or don't, whatever. Germany."

Mycroft flushed a deep shade of red, and let go of her hair. "Code of silence." he half-whined. 

"Stop being such a baby," she retorted, straightening up again. "Your turn."

"Joy," the ginger muttered, though without much bite. He leaned over and struggled to figure out the correct way to drink, until Anthea positioned his head for him. "You're an idiot." she laughed, absentmindedly stroking his hair. "Can't even figure out how to drink from a faucet, good god. How did you ever survive without me?"

"Very carefully," Mycroft replied after several minutes of drinking, "How _did_ I get on without you before?"

"No idea. Good thing you found me, though." she remarked, lowering herself down to the ground and sitting cross-legged beside the sink, "I shudder to think where you'd be otherwise."

Mycroft chuckled and mimicked Anthea's action, letting out a grunt as his bad knee came in contact with the cold floor. 

"Knee bothering you again?" she questioned, gesturing for him to move closer to her.

"Obviously," he sighed, sliding over so he was next to Anthea, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"Want me to rub it?"

"That could be taken several different ways."

"Pervert."

"Homewrecker."

"Hah," the woman chuckled, reaching over to rub Mycroft's knee and laying her head on his shoulder, her eyes falling shut. "When did you become the strong one," she sighed, "I'm supposed to protect you."

Mycroft leaned his head against hers, his breath ghosting over her temple as she massaged his sore joint. "You know," he murmured, "I really don't feel strong. I feel...I'm unsure what I feel." he said finally. "I'm unsure what the proper thing to feel is."

"There is no proper way to feel, Mycroft. What you feel is what you feel. You're allowed to feel anything. Hell, you could even feel happy about this; just because you don't think it's 'proper' doesn't make your emotions any less legitimate." she replied, shifting their position slightly. "Come here."

The ginger raised an eyebrow. "You do realize that it was my turn to be comforting for once, yes?"

"Yes. And now it's my turn again."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and laid his head down on Anthea's shoulder, closing his eyes. He felt a soothing hand running through his thinning hair (well, most of a hand, as there were a few missing fingers) and he sighed softly.

"Are you scared?" he murmured, his eyelids flickering. 

Anthea paused in her stroking, pressing her still-bruised jaw against the crown of Mycroft's head. "Yeah," she admitted, "I'm scared. Terrified. But...it's not what you think."

"What is it, then?" 

"I'm not scared of death. Everybody dies. We're all dying, really; some of us are just dying faster than others."

"That's rather macabre."

"Let me finish," she chided gently, "I'm not afraid of death. I've come close enough to death to stare it right in the face. Death isn't scary. Dying is a little scary. But leaving people behind..." she trailed off, then cleared her throat. "That is legitimately terrifying."

Mycroft opened his eyes; she wasn't worried about her own life, she was worried about...

"Leaving people behind?" he breathed, "How is that more terrifying than actually dying, pray tell?"

"Well," she said, "For starters, once you're dead, that's it. You're not in pain (at least, I don't think so, I wouldn't know), you're not afraid, you're just...dead. A sack of flesh, bone and blood that once held a human personality. But the people that lose you, they have to live with that hurt. They have to go the rest of their lives thinking 'hey, I knew this person, and I liked them, but they're dead now'. It's painful."

"I've not lost anyone I was very close to," Mycroft admitted, "My father died, but..."

"I know," the brunette replied, "You never really lost anyone close to you. Not really."

"I lost Sherlock," the ginger said softly, his stomach twisting with the painful memory of his and his brother's first fight. It had been stupid, over Mycroft going off to uni, and the two had exchanged bitter insults. Mycroft remembered sobbing into his pillow afterwards, and regretting every barb he had thrown at his little brother. It wasn't as if Sherlock didn't deserve every one, but he still felt like a horrible older brother. He'd promised the little boy he'd always protect him, and never hurt him. He'd broken that promise, and he regretted it to this day. He suspected that fight was the reason Sherlock no longer trusted him, even now, and it broke his heart.

"You didn't," Anthea half-soothed, half-scolded, "He's just...difficult."

"And the award for understatement of the year goes to..."

"Shush," the brunette chuckled, "But really, Mycroft. Sherlock doesn't hate you, no matter what he says, and you haven't lost him."

"I have," Mycroft sighed, "It's my fault, all the fighting-"

"No." Anthea interrupted, "It isn't. It isn't your fault that Sherlock decided to be a brat before you went to uni, which you _had_ to attend, both for your education and to get away from that horrid family of yours."

"They weren't horrid," he whispered, "I was just-"

"Stop!" Anthea cried. Mycroft sat up abruptly, eyes wide. "What?!"

"It wasn't you, Mycroft!" she exclaimed, reaching forward to cup his face in her hands, forcing their eyes to meet. "Listen to me very carefully. What they did to you was _not_ your fault. Abuse is never, _ever_ the victim's fault. It's the fault of the abuser, do you understand me? You were not a difficult child, and even if you were, that doesn't merit _any_ of the things they did to you."

"But-"

"No." she cut him off, leaning forward so their foreheads were pressed together. "Listen to me," she murmured, "If it had been me who'd been abused. If my parents had done that to me, would you have said it was my fault?"

"Of course not."

"Then why do you assume it's your fault that you were abused?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. "I...I'm not sure," he confessed, "I'm honestly not sure. I was always told it was punishment, that I wasn't good enough to be treated nicely."

"You are good enough," she murmured, leaning back and releasing his chin. "You _are_ good enough. You deserve the best things in life, Mycroft. You don't see yourself the way I see you. You're hardworking, loyal, and would do anything for Sherlock. Even your mum wouldn't die for Sherlock. You're _amazing_ , and you deserve the best things from other people."

"How do you expect me to believe that?" the government official sighed, burying his face in his hands. "I cannot believe that."

"Do you trust me?"

"Implicitly."

"Then trust me now." she pressed, "Trust me when I say that you are worth it. You have to be nicer to yourself, Mycroft."

"How?"

"Think about it this way," she said, "Those things you think about yourself, those nasty thoughts about your appearance, intelligence, integrity, weight; if you would never say those things to me, then don't say them to yourself. Understand?"

"But you aren't fat, or stupid, and you have integrity and beauty. I don't."

"Yes you do," she reminded him, "Trust me."

He didn't have an answer for that one, and he sighed. "I do trust you," he murmured, "But I do not trust myself."

"I know," she said comfortingly, taking his hand in her own, "But I trust you. Trust yourself; I'd trust you with my life."

"You would?"

"I have, on multiple occasions."

"...You're right," the government official sighed, "You're always right."

Anthea smiled, slipping her arms around Mycroft's waist and hugging him, ignoring the several pains that ripped through her body upon doing so. The ginger smiled as well and hugged her back, pressing his nose into her tangled hair. "I love you, you know," he whispered.

The young woman's smile widened. "I love you, too." she replied, "Always."

"Forever?"

She laughed, "You sound like a sixteen year old girl. But yes," she patted his shoulder, "Forever."

"Forever," Mycroft echoed, glancing around the world. "Speaking of forever, I don't want to be stuck here that long."

"I had no idea," the woman deadpanned, "But...there are no windows, and there's just that one door. How are we supposed to get out?"

"I'm not sure," Mycroft sighed, "Did they lock the door behind them?"

Both of them froze; had they locked the door? They suddenly realized that neither of them had even thought to check if any of the doors were unlocked. They had both been so wrapped up in finding a complex solution to a simple problem, that they had not noticed the answer staring them right in the face. Oh, the irony of it all.

"Wait..." they both said at once, "Did they...?"

Sudden realization dawned on them, and neither of them could help the burst of laughter that burst forth. "They didn't lock it!" Anthea gasped, "They didn't...oh god, we're stupid."

"We are stupid!" Mycroft replied, clinging to his assistant for dear life, attempting to hold back the howling laughter threatening to burst from him. "They didn't...oh god, for the most observant man in the world, I'm an idiot."

"You're so stupid," she snorted, "I'm so stupid. We're both stupid."

"We are both idiots," Mycroft agreed, "But good god, let's be free idiots, yes?"

"Yes." Anthea replied, "Let's. After you, _Sir_."

Mycroft smiled and took her hand, bracing himself on her as he stood. He took both her wrists in his hands and pulled her up as well, giving her a smile that could melt even the iciest of hearts. "You're cute," she remarked, "I haven't seen that smile in so long."

"Well, hopefully you will see more of it, yes?"

"I'd like that," she replied, holding a finger to her lips. "Take your shoes off."

"They are Dior!"

"They will make noise. Off with them," she commanded. Mycroft scowled, but obediantly removed his shoes. Anthea nodded her approval. "Now shush." she muttered.

Mycroft nodded, and she led him towards the door, placing her hand on the inside handle and pulling. The door didn't budge. "Come on, you fucker," she swore, tugging harder, "Open."

The large, metal door creaked, then came out of the jamb with a loud groan. "Shh," she hissed at it. The tips of her ears turned pink. "I'm telling a door to be quiet." she whispered, "Help."

"Shh," Mycroft hushed, holding the door so it creaked as little as possible. "I'm sure it forgives you. Ladies first." he added.

"Go ahead, then."

"I hate you," he chuckled breathily, allowing her to hold the door open while he slipped out. She followed close behind him, and the pair made their way silently down the eerily lit corridor.

"I feel like this is the part of the movie where the zombies attack," she said quietly, chuckling a little at her own joke. 

"You're an idiot," he retorted, secretly in awe of her ability to maintain casual conversation while attempting to escape from what had essentially become their prison. 

"Yeah, but you love me anyway." she replied, "Hey, genius."

"What?"

"You know this building. Where do we go?"

Mycroft stopped in his tracks for a moment, releasing Anthea's hand and closing his eyes. "The nearest exit is three hallways to the left," he murmured, "But I believe the main office is also that way. Do you think they're there?"

"You tell me, human supercomputer."

"I believe that would be the most logical place for them to be, yes," Mycroft muttered, "So...the other option is a door four hallways down, on the other side of the building."

Anthea nodded, then took Mycroft's hand again. "Alright, let's go that way."

The pair crept silently down the hallway, managing to make little to no noise, thanks to Anthea's insistence that they leave Mycroft's shoes behind. They had almost made it to the other end of the hallway when loud shouts and footsteps sounded behind them, followed by several gunshots.

"What the hell was that?!" Anthea practically screeched. All the colour drained from Mycroft's face, and he gripped her hand tighter. "I don't know," he replied, "This way!"

The two darted down the corridor, the other footsteps and shouts close behind them, turning the corner as quickly as their legs would allow, their nearly-bare feet smacking the ground loudly. Mycroft could feel his knee screaming in protest, but ignored the pain in favour of pressing on, and escaping from the hellish prison they had been trapped in for the past...how long had it been, exactly? He realized with a growing sense of dread that he had no idea. Maybe no one had even noticed they were gone, maybe...

A loud gunshot cut off his train of thought, and he felt himself being shoved to the side faster than he thought possible, a loud 'No!' escaping his companion's lips.


	18. Chapter 18

When Gregory Lestrade gave orders, people listened. In his personal life, he could be as gentle as a butterfly landing on a strand of silk; but give him a crime scene, a raid, or an investigation, and he was more aggressive than anyone you'd ever met. It wasn't a surprise that he had immediately taken control of his officers, barking out orders as quickly and efficiently as a drill sergeant, and drilled it into their heads that they could _not_ , under any circumstances, fail. He'd made it known that it was a government official they were attempting to rescue (not that any of them were unaware of that fact in the first place, thanks to Greg's behaviour and attitude as of late), and that they were to exercise the utmost caution when attempting to neutralize the situation, but not hesitate to shoot to kill if they felt anyone's lives, including their own, were in danger.

The fact that he was now standing outside the enormous hospital, hands shaking slightly with stress and anxiety, seemed unreal to him. Plainclothes police officers littered the grounds, some of them armed with their usual weapons, and some of them carrying specialized assault rifles under their coats. The area had been cleared some time ago of civilians (of which there weren't very many), leaving only the Yard officers, Sherlock and John, himself, and the people inside the hospital. One of whom, hopefully, was Mycroft, alive. The DI swallowed hard and reached into his pocket for a cigarette, but found his pack had either slipped from his pocket, or was stolen. He guessed the latter, considering Sherlock was around, and shot the consulting detective a glare. Sherlock smirked at him, then raised his hand and wiggled his fingers in a mocking wave. "Idiot," the silver-haired DI muttered to himself, forcing his lungs to take in a much-needed breath of air. 

He picked up his radio and swallowed, pressing the small button on the side. "Is everybody in position?"

"We are." came Donovan's voice on the other end, "Ready when you are to negotiate, Inspector."

"They might react badly if we try to negotiate, judging by their actions so far. Break the door down." he muttered, "I don't negotiate with terrorists." Good god, if Mycroft were standing next to him, he would have gotten one of the worst Looks yet. He missed Mycroft's dirty looks, _god_ he missed them.

"Sir, do you really think that's an appropriate joke?"

"Sorry," the DI blushed, "I'm just...this is..."

"I understand. Everyone is in position, including myself. Awaiting your orders. Out."

Greg swallowed hard, clutching his gun a little tighter. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he thought of the enormity of the task he was about to embark on. He had one chance, one chance to get it right, one chance to save the lives of two people. He forced himself to think of them as just two more kidnap victims, hoping to push the idea of Mycroft being hurt, or dead, out of his mind. It didn't work; if anything, it just made things much, much worse.

 _"Don't fuck it up,"_ his little inner voice taunted, _"Don't fuck it up! You fuck it up, and he's dead!"_

"Oh for god's sake, shut _up_!" he growled, biting down on the inside of his cheek. "I won't fuck it up. I won't. So just get the fuck away from me."

 _"Ooh, big man,"_ it taunted, _"Good luck getting along without me now that your stupid boyfriend's going to die."_

"I'll be fine," he whispered, "Because Myc is going to be fine." He reached up and clicked the button on his radio. "You're all ready?"

"We are," Donovan's voice came through a crackle of static, "But I just heard gunfire. Are you sure it's-"

"Go!"

***

The sound of the gunshot continued to echo off the walls of the corridor, assaulting Mycroft's ears with several bangs, getting softer in succession. He threw his arms out to break his fall as Anthea shoved him, hearing her shriek of 'No!' as he hit the ground. His forehead struck the tile hard, causing him to momentarily black out. A heavy weight dropped on top of him, and he felt a sticky stubstance leaking onto his trousers. He could hear voices through the haze of fear, but they weren't talking to him.

_"Boss, we have to go!"_

_"Not until I kill those bastards!"_ Nikolas screamed, _"He killed my brother!"_

_"You shot him! He's going to die!"_

_"I want to watch his brain splatter!"_

_"Boss. Please. He's dead, you've got your revenge."_

_"What if he isn't?!"_ Nikolas' voice sounded, raw, panicked; something Mycroft had never heard before. _"What if he isn't dead?!"_

 _"You got him, Boss! You got him! And even if he is still alive, you'll never get the chance to kill him if you're dead! Let's_ go _!"_

_"But the girl-"_

_"Let's GO!"_

_"For fuck's sake, fine!"_

The footsteps and voices disappeared slowly, and Mycroft lifted his head. "Anthea," he whispered, "They're gone, Anthea-"

"Mycroft..." Anthea moaned, rolling off of the government official as best she could. "I...Mycroft..."

"Anthea...?" Mycroft sat up, his head screaming in protest. He ignored the pain and ran eyes up and down Anthea's form, his heart stopping. An enormous puddle of blood surrounded her left hip, her skirt and jacket drenched in the sticky, maroon fluid. "Oh my god," he whispered, "Oh, god..." He reached out and grabbed onto Anthea's blood-drenched jacket, pulling her into his arms. "Anthea," he whispered, "Oh, god..."

"Mycroft..." she gasped, "They got me...This is how it ends, huh? After all this...a hip wound...who would've guessed it, huh?" she chuckled breathily, closing her eyes. 

"Shh," he whispered, his throat closing, "Don't talk like that, you'll be alright. They're rescuing us, remember? Just hang on, alright?"

"Mycroft..." she coughed, reaching up a weak arm to touch his cheek, "It doesn't matter. The bullet...I'll bleed out before they get here."

"No, no, that isn't true," he murmured, pulling her closer so her head was resting on his shoulder, "You'll be alright, it's alright. I'll make sure you get the best care."

"Mycroft...I'm going to die," she whispered, "It hit an artery, I can feel it. No matter what they do...I'm going to die."

"No, don't say that," he soothed, "You're not going to die, you won't die. I've got you."

She smiled sadly, opening her eyes to look up at Mycroft. "Promise me something," she whispered, "Can you promise me something?"

"I'll promise you later," he hushed, "For now, just hang on for me, alright?"

"Please." Her voice was desperate; begging him to make her this promise, this final promise.

"Anthea..." he swallowed hard, fighting back the tears in his eyes, "What is it?"

"That little voice in your head," she breathed, wincing as yet more blood leaked from her leg, "I don't want you to listen to that little voice anymore. I want you to hear my voice instead, do you understand?"

"Anthea, love..."

" _Please_ ," she choked, "Please do this for me. Don't listen to it. Listen to my voice, let my voice guide you instead, alright?"

"I...alright," he whispered, the tears behind his eyes spilling forth as the Iceman melted. "Please don't die," he begged, "I need you. Please don't leave me."

"I'm not leaving you willingly, love," she chuckled sadly, "Promise me you won't listen to that voice anymore. Let me be that little voice. Remember everything I told you."

"I will," he whispered, wrapping his other arm around her torso and pulling her close, burying his nose in her hair, "Oh, Anthea..."

"Shh," she soothed, feeling her heart rate slowing, "Can you promise me something else?"

"Anything."

"Come see me," she murmured, her voice breaking, "I don't want to be lonely. Come see me. Promise?"

"I...I promise," Mycroft sobbed, "Please..."

"Shh, don't cry," she whispered, reaching up to wipe his tears away, "I don't want you crying to be the last thing I see."

"Anthea..." Mycroft swallowed, then reached up to brush the tears from his cheeks.

"That's better," she grinned, "Now let's see that smile, yeah?"

Mycroft couldn't help smiling at Anthea's grin, and the corners of her lips twitched up further. "There we are," she murmured, "Beautiful." She felt her chest tighten, and let out a loud gasp, clutching at Mycroft as if he were the only thing keeping her afloat in an angry, storming ocean.

"Anthea!" the ginger cried, pulling the brunette closer yet. "Please..."

"Shh," she said softly, "Come here, let me see you smile."

Mycroft bit his lip, managing a smile for her through his tears. "I love you, you know," he chuckled, "You were always there."

"And I always will be," she replied, staring affectionately up at the government official, "I promise."

"Forever?"

"Yes, forever," she smiled, "I love you. Forever."

"Forever," Mycroft repeated, pressing his tear-stained cheek against hers. He felt her body shuddering, and his chest tightened; it wouldn't be long. "I have to know," he said softly, "Was it worth it? All this...was it worth it?"

"You were worth it," she whispered as darkness began to edge at the corners of her eyes, "You will always be worth it. If I had to do all this over again, I wouldn't change a thing. You will _always_ be worth it." She closed her eyes and shuddered again as her final breath left her lungs. "Forever."

"Forever," Mycroft whispered back, pulling her as close to his chest as he could. He could feel the life leaving her body, and bent his head over her chest, pressing his nose into the soft yet tangled hair hanging over her shoulders, taking in the scent that would soon fade from his memory. He could hear more voices down the hall, including a familiar one he thought he'd never hear again.

_"This way!"_

_"They went that way!"_

_"I got them, I got them!"_

_"Where are Mycroft and Anthea?"_

_"Spread out and look!"_

***

"Mycroft?"

"There!"

The ginger didn't lift his head as the footsteps came closer, his lover's voice, along with a chorus of others, ringing hollow in his ears. Cries of "Mycroft!" "Oh, thank god!" "Oh my god." and "She's bleeding!" echoed throughout the corridor.

 _"She's not bleeding, she's dead,"_ he thought to himself (actually, he was surprised the little voice hadn't popped up by now. "She's dead." he whispered to himself, holding the body of his PA, his support system, his _best friend_ as tightly as he could, unwilling to let go.

Greg darted down the hallway faster than he thought possible, seeing his lover sitting on the floor in a pool of blood. Momentarily, he feared the worst, until he saw the woman lying across Mycroft's lap, her head resting on his shoulder. She wasn't breathing, he could see that from where he was standing, and his heart stopped.

"Medic!" he called, "Need a medic!"

"Don't bother," Mycroft whispered, "She's not...she's..." He couldn't bring himself to finish his sentence, thousands of thoughts swimming around in his head all at once.

"Mycroft," Greg knelt down next to the government official, tears streaming down his cheeks, "I thought...Oh god..." He ran his fingers through Mycroft's hair, glancing down at Anthea's body; she'd been shot in the hip, right on the edge of the artery. He guessed that she'd bled out within minutes. It must have been horrible, he thought to himself. He shook his head, refocusing his attention on Mycroft.

"Mycroft, love," he breathed, reaching out to touch Anthea's still-warm cheek, "You have to let go so the medics can take her."

The ginger shook his head slightly, his grip around Anthea's torso tightening; she promised him forever. How could there be forever if he let go? He knew it was an irrational thought, but then again, nothing he was thinking was at all rational.

"Mycroft," Greg soothed, "She...She's gone, love. You did your job. Let her go."

Mycroft shook his head a second time, his sensitive ears picking up the sounds of several paramedics approaching. 

"Mycroft," the DI whispered, placing a hand over the government official's, "Let her go. It's okay. Let her go."

Mycroft felt his bottom lip quiver, and his entire body weakened and went limp, allowing the medics to lift Anthea's still, lifeless body onto a stretcher. He felt himself being poked and prodded at, but he was unaware of much else. The only thoughts running through his mind were _"Anthea, Anthea, Greg, Anthea, Sherlock, I'm saved, Anthea's dead, Greg, Anthea, Anthea..."_.

He barely felt himself being loaded onto a stretcher and into the back of an ambulance, his lover at his side, clutching the hand that lacked an IV needle in his own, whispering words of love and praise to any deity who would listen. Mycroft simply closed his eyes and allowed the fear, stress, and grief to overtake him, the rumbling of the ambulance lulling him into an exhausted sleep.


	19. Chapter 19

_"Mycroft..."_

_The ginger heard a familiar voice, and opened his eyes. He was lying in a...field? How on Earth did he get there, he wondered. The entire place was rather barren, with heavy, dark grey clouds hanging heavily over what looked like hundreds of miles of grass-covered hills. The bright green and near-black clouds were a sharp, almost terrifying contrast, not unlike the setting for a film._

_"Mycroft!"_

_The distinctly female voice called again, putting emphasis on the 'y' in his name. He sat up abruptly; was that..._

_"Anthea?" he called back, "Anthea?"_

_"Over here, you idiot." she called back, laughter in her voice. "Don't you see me?"_

_The ginger turned his head and saw her; she was perched on a swingset (where the hell had that come from?) and was gently pushing herself back and forth, her brunette curls blowing gently in the wind. "For the most observant man in the world, you sure are silly," she chuckled, motioning for him to come closer. He stood up, all the pain in his body mysteriously gone, and walked towards her, the blades of grass tickling his bare feet. That's right, he'd lost his shoes, he recalled._

_"What are you doing here?" he asked as he approached, "What am_ I _doing here?"_

_"Don't know," she replied, pushing herself back and forth, "Come. Sit."_

_Mycroft gave her an odd look, then shrugged and sat down gingerly on the swing beside her, letting out a soft sigh as the wooden plank took his full weight. "So where are we?" he questioned, mimicking her movements._

_"Aren't you nosy," she teased, tossing her hair over her shoulder, "Where do you think we are?"_

_The government official bit the inside of his cheek, surveying the area. "It looks like a field."_

_"Brilliant," she said sarcastically, "But what field?"_

_"I don't know," he admitted, surveying the landscape, "You're not going to tell me?"_

_"Nope," the brunette replied, pushing herself a little higher, "The field isn't important."_

_"So why are we here? If I recall correctly, you're dead."_

_"Death is simply the passage from what we know as life into another one."_

_"Thought you didn't believe in an afterlife."_

_"Kind of hard to not believe in it, considering I'm in it," she snorted, "But it isn't the kind of afterlife you'd expect."_

_"What is it, then?" he questioned; the scientist in him was intrigued._

_"Well, from what I can figure, this," she gestured to the landscape around them. "Is all a sort of limbo."_

_"Limbo?"_

_"The place between life and death."_

_"So why am I here?" he asked suspiciously._

_She shrugged. "Your heart stopped in the ambulance."_

_"How do you know?"_

_She nodded down at their feet. "Look."_

_Mycroft looked down, and his eyes widened. Below them was something not unlike a window, except it continuously panned to different shots of the ambulance; Greg panicking, the medics beginning chest compressions, and his own face, pale and grey._

_"Why did my heart stop?" he questioned, turning his head to look at his PA._

_Anthea shrugged. "As far as I can tell, coincidence. But you don't believe in coincidences."_

_"No, I don't," he replied, raising an eyebrow, "So why did my heart stop?"_

_She shrugged again. "I guess somebody in the universe wanted me to talk to you before I go on to the big oblivion in the sky/ground/whatever."_

_"That doesn't make sense, but it's the closest thing I've got to an actual explanation," he muttered, "Should we talk?"_

_"We are talking," she replied, kicking her legs out and pulling them back in again, causing her swing to move forward. "We did a lot of talking over the years, didn't we?"_

_Mycroft nodded, not saying anything; he knew he should be afraid, confused, even angry, but he couldn't bring himself to be. "You're not real," he remarked, "You're a hallucination brought on by oxygen deprivation in my brain."_

_"Sure, whatever you say," the brunette replied, swinging higher. "Guess you don't want me to tell you why you're here."_

_"Why am I here?"_

_"Ah ah ah," she scolded, "Swing with me first."_

_"That's ridiculous, I am a grown-"_

_"Swing, before they start your heart again."_

_Mycroft huffed in exasperation, then braced his feet on the ground and pushed back, sending his swing back."How long have I been out?"_

_"A little over a minute," the woman replied, kicking her legs a little higher with each swing, "Time passes slowly up here."_

_"Mm." Mycroft closed his eyes, feeling the wind picking up, his hair blowing into his eyes. "So, again...why am I here?"_

_"Ah yes," she replied, "The million-dollar question." She was silent for several minutes, allowing the soft breeze to blow her hair around her neck._

_"...Well, are you going to tell me?" he asked, exasperated._

_"One minute," she said sharply, "I don't know why you're here."_

_"Then why did you offer to tell me?"_

_"To screw with you."_

_"I hate you."_

_"No, you don't."_

_Mycroft cast his eyes downward, and nodded. "I don't hate you," he said quietly, slowing his swing to a near-stop. "I already miss you."_

_"I miss you, too," she sighed, "Oh, Mycroft."_

_"Anthea," Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek, "I don't know how you expect me to go on without you."_

_"You're a big boy, you can take it," she chuckled, "It'll get easier. I mean, yes, it's painful, and nothing is ever truly the same, but eventually things will go back to normal."_

_"What is normal?" he laughed bitterly, "You_ are _my 'normal'."_

_"I know. But you'll find a new normal, with him." she nodded down at the picture below them, which now showed the DI in the corner of the ambulance, chewing on one of his knuckles until it bled, face contorted with worry and fear. "He loves you, you know. He's not just going to want you back because of my unfortunate demise; thanks to a deduction from your dear brother, he's finally seen the light as to why he was wrong about our alleged affair."_

_"Thank god," the ginger chuckled, "But..."_

_"But what?"_

_Mycroft looked down at his knees, letting his eyelids fall half-closed. He swallowed hard, then spoke. "How am I supposed to go on? Really. You were," he let out a shaky breath, "You were my strength, my protector, my...everything, really. How am I supposed to go through with the rest of my life, now? How am I supposed to make the pain that I am feeling even now, sitting here talking to you, go away?"_

_"It doesn't go away, Myc," she said softly, placing a hand on his arm. "It gets easier, and you start to forget, but it never really goes away."_

_"Then what do I do?" he questioned, voice laced with pain and grief. "I'm unsure if I want to go back to my old life."_

_"It isn't your old life," the brunette reassured him, "You can have a new life, a happy one. Look how happy Greg made you. You and he can still make it work, if you accept his apology, that is."_

_"That isn't it," he stood up from his swing and moved to stand in front of her. "Honestly, how do you expect me to wake up every morning and think 'the only person I ever truly trusted got herself shot and killed because of me'? How am I supposed to walk into the same office we laughed in, I cried in, you beat me at chess in? How on Earth, or whatever universe we're in, can I possibly pretend you were never here? Pretend that I'm alright? I_ need _you. I don't think you understand how much."_

_"I do," she snapped, standing up, "You don't think that having to look at your face as the life was sucked from my body wasn't the most difficult thing I ever did? You don't think that this doesn't hurt me as well? Look at us! You get to go on, to live your life, to be happy with someone you love, someone who cares about you just as much as I do. You get to have a life, Mycroft; and it can be a happy one." she swallowed, turning away from him. "If you don't think this is the most painful thing I've ever done, you're wrong. I would die for you a thousand times more, but I would give anything to not have to face you. I'm a coward, Mycroft; I can't bring myself to leave you, which is why I'm still here. I am_ afraid _to be without you, do you understand? I'm_ afraid _."_

_The ginger stepped back, hurt in his large, grey eyes. He hadn't thought about Anthea at all; granted, it hadn't been all that long since she'd died (Hours? Minutes? He didn't know), but there really wasn't any excuse. "I'm sorry," he murmured, "I had no idea-"_

_"Well, now you do." she replied, looking up at him with pained eyes. "You get closure. You know where I am. I don't know if I'll ever see you again."_

_"I don't either," the government official sighed, "Why did you have to die?"_

_"Fate. Destiny. Whatever helps you sleep at night." she shrugged, "All I know is, I'm dead, and you have the choice to either go back and have a life, or stay here." she gestured around them, and Mycroft turned his head. The entire place looked...desolate. Empty. Much like the feeling in Mycroft's chest as he turned back to his PA._

_"What should I do?"_

_"Only you can decide that," she replied, sinking back onto her swing and sighing, "You can either do...whatever it is we're supposed to do here with me, or you can go back and be with Greg."_

_Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek; he knew what he had to do, but this time, it was different. "This time, I_ am _willingly leaving you," he murmured, "The universe is a cruel place."_

_"Indeed," she replied, tipping her head back as a few drops of water fell on her head. "It's raining," she remarked, "I think that means we're supposed to hurry up."_

_"Why would that mean 'hurry up'?"_

_"Why are you standing here talking to a dead girl?" she chuckled, "I don't know what the hell is going on in this upside-down, wibbly-wobbly world anymore. All I know is, you," she gestured down at their feet, the image of Mycroft's lips turning blue staring them straight in the face, "Should make that decision sooner rather than later. Don't want any damage to that brain of yours, do we?"_

_"So soon?" he questioned, disappointment evident in his voice, "But I thought..."_

_"I know," she finished, "I know you did. But there isn't time. So what's it going to be?"_

_Mycroft swallowed, looking down at his feet, and down at the scene below them. "If I do go back," he said slowly, "Will you be here when I actually do die?"_

_"I can't promise that," she murmured, "But I'll do my very best to find you."_

_"...Promise?" he asked quietly, feeling very much like a child again._

_"Yes," she answered firmly, reaching out to take his hand, "I promise."_

_"I guess this is goodbye, then," Mycroft smiled sadly, "It's been...fun."_

_"Not goodbye," she smiled, standing up and wrapping her arms around the man's neck. "Just...see you later. Hopefully not too soon."_

_Mycroft pressed his face into her shoulder, fighting back tears. "I'll miss you."_

_"I'll keep an eye on you," she said softly, "If I can. I promise I will."_

_"Forever?" he murmured, several hot tears dripping onto the fabric of her suitjacket._

_She gave him another firm squeeze, then stepped back, smoothing down the front of her jacket (which was delightfully clean of blood, the government official noted with relief). "Yes. Forever." she replied, giving the ginger a wide smile._

_Mycroft smiled back, and reached out to touch her cheek. "See you later, then," he murmured, feeling his body getting heavier. The landscape began to disintigrate around him, and he shut his eyes, feeling very much like he was trapped in a hurricane. He could feel an immense pain in his chest and throat, and tried to turn his head, but found it was being held in place by something, and another firm object lodged in his throat. He could hear a voice, a definitively masculine one this time._

"Mycroft! Oh, Christ, Mycroft," Greg murmured, leaning over to kiss the government official's temple, tears in his eyes, "We almost lost you. Your heart stopped."

The government official cracked one eye open and was about to reply, but found himself unable to speak due to the tube that had been inserted down his throat while he was (presumably) 'in limbo' with Anthea. "Shh, don't try to talk," the DI soothed, running his hand over Mycroft's forehead, "You'll be alright, okay? We're almost to the hospital."

Mycroft swallowed (his mouth was incredibly dry at this point) and managed a slight nod, closing his eyes and allowing his lover's comforting touches to guide him into a meditative state, his brain finally giving in to the exhaustion he felt, unable to form any more thoughts other than those of being out of pain, both physical and emotional.


	20. Chapter 20

"Mycroft."

Gregory Lestrade's voice broke through the thick darkness surrounding Mycroft's thoughts, the worried, pained tones piercing the surface of his mind until they reached the core, urging him to rouse from his dreamless sleep.The government official groaned, his body unwilling to awaken, struggling to open his left eye at the sound of his name, and saw his lover perched at his bedside, worry lines etched in his handsome, yet weathered, face. "Mycroft, Christ," he murmured as he saw the government official's eye open. "Thought we'd lost you, there." he laughed nervously, "You've been out for awhile."

Mycroft blinked slowly, his eyes adjusting to the light in the room much more slowly than he would have liked. He struggled to recall where he was, the events of the previous several days tricking back in slowly. "What? How long?" he rasped, almost annoyed that they'd removed his breathing tube; his chest still felt tight, and he found it slightly difficult to breathe.

"Twenty-four hours, maybe thirty," the DI replied, reaching up to stroke Mycroft's mussed hair. "Sleepyhead." he teased, his voice still tinged with tension.

"...Right." Mycroft attempted to gather up any moisture in his mouth that he could, though it was difficult, considering how long the breathing tube had been in. He guessed they'd removed it less than an hour before, judging by how dry his lips and tongue currently were. Greg noticed the ginger's discomfort, and immediately reached into a bowl on the bedside table, pulling out an ice chip and holding it to Mycroft's lips. 

"Here," he said softly, reaching back with his other hand to retrieve another chip. "You must be thirsty, yeah?"

Mycroft made an attempt to nod, barely succeeding in moving his head, and swallowed the chips gratefully, allowing the moisture to soothe his dry mouth. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice much deeper and more gravelly than normal.

"Of course, love," the DI replied without thinking. As soon as he realized what he'd said, he blushed profusely, the apples of his cheeks turning a deep pink. "I...oh god, I'm sorry, I-"

"Stop," the government official interrupted, halfheartedly lifting his hand. "The term is accurate."

Greg's eyebrows shot up, his eyes wide. "Wha-"

"The affectionate term 'love' is used to describe..." Mycroft swallowed again, though it had nothing to do with the dampness of his tongue this time. "It's an affectionate term. It's fine."

"Right, right," the DI said softly, still absentmindedly stroking Mycroft's wavy hair. "You had a heart attack. You almost died."

"I'm aware. It appears that I truly am indestructable." Mycroft replied, letting his eyes fall shut. Another thought sprung into his mind, and he opened his eyes again, though his fatigue kept them from opening all the way. "What happened to those men? Nikolas?" he questioned, clearing his throat. "Are they in custody?"

"Shh, relax," Greg said, "We got them. We got them as you were being loaded into the ambulance. Nikolas is dead, and his two goons are behind bars and in questioning as we speak."

"Two?" the ginger said, confused, "There were three..."

Greg quirked his eyebrow, slight shock and worry passing over his face, then nodded slowly. "Well, we didn't find a third person, but we're still canvassing the area. Maybe something'll turn up."

"Mm." Mycroft nodded slowly, then closed his eyes, letting out a soft breath; he could tell the DI was simply avoiding the metaphorical elephant in the room, which was his assistant's unfortunate demise. It was odd, he thought; he didn't feel any different, emotionally. He guessed it was the combination of both his kidnapping ordeal and heart attack that kept him from completely breaking down, though it was inevitable that he did, especially now that Anthea was no longer there to pick him up when he fell. 

"Do you have anything else to tell me?" he questioned.

"Mycroft..." Greg rolled his tonge around in his mouth, struggling to find the right words. "Mycroft," the older man's voice faltered, "Anthea's dead."

"I know," the government official replied, his voice soft, squeezing his eyes shut a bit tighter for an instant, a hint of grief in his voice, "Nikolas shot at me. She shoved me out of the way and caught a bullet in the hip. Evidently it struck an artery."

"Yeah," the DI murmured, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. He cleared his throat again, then looked up at the younger man again, avoiding his eyes. "The autopsy said she died of blood loss. I...I'm really sorry, Mycroft. She was a wonderful girl, and she'll be missed by a lot of people."

"She was, wasn't she..." the ginger mused; Mycroft despised talking about Anthea in the past tense, though it was the only way _to_ describe her now. Another thought occured to him, and he furrowed his brow. "Where is she?"

Greg glanced up at Mycroft, but wouldn't meet his eyes. "Where is she?" Mycroft demanded, attempting to sit up, an excruciating pain tearing through his chest. He hated being kept in the dark, especially in situations like this. He let out a soft cry and fell back against the pillows, his jaw going slack from both the pain and medication that was currently being pumped into his veins by his intravenous unit.

"Oi, stay there!" the older man exclaimed, placing both hands on Mycroft's shoulders, "She's in the hospital morgue. She's here."

"Promise?" Mycroft gasped, still trying to recover from the pain he had brought upon himself. He couldn't stand the thought of Anthea (or, her body at least) being anywhere but in the most dignified and sterile conditions.

"Yes, yes, for chrissakes!" Greg muttered, releasing his grip on Mycroft's shoulders and sagging back into his chair. "We called her family since you were...incapacitated. They were shocked, understandably, and acted...more than a little hysterical."

"Of course they did," the government official replied, "She was the only daughter in a family of five."

Greg nodded; he hadn't known much, if anything, about Anthea, and that made him feel much more guilty than he knew he ought to feel. Ever since they had pronounced her, his guilt had been eating him alive; he hadn't been able to save her, and he wondered if she had died hating him. It was a silly thing to think about now, he told himself, but it was still important. He couldn't stand the thought that her last thoughts, or words, had been expressing her hatred of him.

"She didn't hate you," Mycroft murmured, "She didn't hate anybody. Well, except Nikolas."

Greg looked up, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "God, I missed that," he said softly, "You never think you'll miss having someone read your mind, but..." he trailed off.

After several long, uncomfortable minutes of silence, Mycroft spoke. "You were telling me about Anthea's family?"

"Oh, yeah," the DI replied, trying to keep his tone even, "They'll be flying in here for the funeral tomorrow. It's scheduled for Friday."

Mycroft felt his throat tighten. "Funeral," he repeated, the word ringing hollow in his ears. He knew Anthea was undeniably and irrevocably dead, of course; she'd died in his arms. He had felt her breathing stop, as well as her pulse. But the term 'funeral' made her death seem all that much more real, and painfully raw. He was suddenly very aware of how much he would miss the brunette's giggle, the way she walked, even her beating him at chess, and hot tears pricked at his eyes. 

_"Don't cry, you stupid fuck,"_ his little inner voice taunted, _"You're such a-"_

_"Shut up."_ came another voice, a very familiar one. _"Leave him alone. He doesn't need your shit anymore. Fuck off."_

_"Ooh, dead girl's feisty! I'm shaking."_

_"Get out and leave Mycroft alone. He's going to be nice to himself from now on. Isn't that right, Myc?"_

"Yes," Mycroft whispered, unaware that he was speaking out loud.

"What?"

Mycroft looked up, and felt a blush creep up his neck when he realized the DI was staring at him. "Nothing," he murmured, sinking further into the pillows and relaxing his tense muscles, "Just...thinking out loud, I suppose."

"Oh," Greg replied, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. Mycroft let his eyes close again, unwilling to meet the DI's gaze.

"Mycroft?"

Mycroft opened his eyes again, annoyed. "What?"

"I ah..." the silver-haired man cleared his throat again, stood up, and sat down on the bed next to Mycroft, his hand just barely brushing the government official's hip. "I just wanted to apologize to you. For everything. I know now that-"

"Stop," Mycroft interrupted, "You don't have to do this."

"I want to," the DI replied, "Now let me finish." Mycroft eyed the older man tiredly, but allowed Greg to continue speaking.

The DI took a deep breath, then lowered his eyes, picking at the fabric on his trousers. "I want to apologize for everything. The jumping to conclusions, the nastiness, the avoidance; it was immature, and stupid. There's no excuse for my behaviour, and I completely understand if you never want to see me again." Mycroft's eyes widened as Greg's voice began to falter in intervals as he spoke. "I was wrong, Mycroft. So, so wrong. You were, and still are, the most important thing in my life, and I was such an arse to you. It's my fault you got into this. If I hadn't been such an idiot, you wouldn't have gotten kidnapped, and maybe Anthea would still be here. But...I don't know.

For awhile, I tried to convince myself that my wife cheating on me was an excuse, but it wasn't. It was a shitty thing to do to you, and even worse now that Anthea's...Well, I can't ask her forgiveness, but I'd like to ask for yours, if or when you're ready to give it to me, and I'd like to....start over. Just you and I, no secrets this time." Greg sat back, chewing on his bottom lip and avoiding Mycroft's eyes.

Mycroft was silent for a long while, letting the DI's words sink in. "I don't blame you," he murmured, incredulity in his voice, "I wanted to...I _tried_ to. But I couldn't. It isn't your fault, none of it. A chance occurence, followed by a series of rather unfortunate events I don't care to reflect on at this moment."

"Well uh...that's the other thing," the DI replied, immensely relieved his apology had been well-received, but still worried he would upset Mycroft with the next topic of conversation he had to bring up. "We found some things in your Mum's place that we thought were important."

"Things? What things?"

"It's a long story."

Greg spent the next hour explaining everything; the first steps he'd taken with the investigation, his meeting with Mummy Holmes, the bugs, the organization of his rescue, and finally, a detailed description of the things he'd discovered after the rescue was over, with several parts carefully edited out so as not to cause Mycroft any more undue stress. Mycroft was silent for nearly ten minutes, then spoke, his voice almost too soft to be heard.

"So...Nikolas posed as a housekeeper in a bid to gain information about me, since I'm too well-protected, was hired by Mummy without her knowing about his true motive, had access to the box of bugs from years ago, and opportunity to plant a new one to monitor Mummy's conversations with me. Obviously they didn't know that my mother and I are not on good terms, to say the least," he murmured, "And...bugs, you said...What kinds?"

"Just regular bugs, standard ones. Only these were old." Greg replied, confused as to why Mycroft asked about the little recording devices rather than anything else (because even he had to admit that the 'everything else' was interesting as hell).

"How old?"

"Some of them are more than twenty years old," the DI replied, carefully sliding his hand over Mycroft's knee, "I think someone may have been spying on-"

"My father."

"Yes, that's exactly-"

"No, my father. You don't understand."

"Understand what?"

"My father must have planted them," Mycroft said incredulously, "There were so many things Sherlock and I did as children that we were punished for; things he would have never known about had he not directly heard us."

"Wait, so you're saying..."

"He bugged the cat," Mycroft exclaimed, "It was the cat!"

"Are you saying that you think your father bugged Sherlock's stuffed cat? Why?" Greg questioned, "What could he possibly learn? You were children, for god's sake."

"No, you don't understand," Mycroft sighed; he'd hoped to never have to reveal this part of his life, but it looked as if that decision had been made for him. Bracing himself for the inevitable barrage of questions and sympathetic looks, he continued. "He felt the need to control every aspect of the lives of those around him, when he wasn't too busy pouring alcohol down his throat. I don't know why I didn't think of this before, honestly. Sherlock carried Freckles everywhere, and it was the perfect way to keep an eye on the both of us. Well, a metaphorical eye." Mycroft had begun to babble by this time. "He bugged the cat to keep an eye on us, and the recordings are still..." he stopped. "Hold on a moment," he said slowly, "Have you heard the recordings?"

Greg nodded slowly, a grim look on his face. "Yeah, I did," he admitted, "Christ, Mycroft, I'm so-"

"Don't," Mycroft interrupted, weakly holding up his hand. "Just...don't."

"But Mycroft-"

"What did I just say?" the government official snapped, "It's the past. It's over, done with; I don't want your sympathy, or pity."

"I don't pity you, Mycroft," the DI bit back, "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

"What did I just say?"

"Alright, alright!" Greg raised both his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Fine! I'm sorry _Sherlock_ had to go through that, how about that?"

"Sherlock doesn't remember any of it," Mycroft replied, his voice dropping to a whisper, "He deleted it all."

"And you didn't?"

"I'm incapable of that."

"Oh," Greg bit his lip, then averted his eyes. "If he deleted your childhood...Wait...Is that why he treats you so badly? He doesn't remember when you were friends?"

"Yes," the ginger replied, biting the inside of his cheek. "That is exactly why."

"Christ, Mycroft," Greg murmured, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to the government official's forehead, "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," the younger man replied, arching up slightly and enjoying the small display of affection, no matter how annoying he found the DI's words to be. "As I said, it's long over."

"But it's...Alright," the DI said softly, "Alright. You're right."

"Thank you," the government official replied, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips (the first in what felt like years). "Was there anything else, or can I sleep for awhile?"

"Oh, yeah, there was something else," Greg murmured, "The hospital psychiatrist will be in to see you later, if you're awake."

Mycroft's eyes hardened. "What for?"

"...Seriously? Mycroft, you were kidnapped and tortured; you need someone to talk to."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not!"

"I am!" Mycroft snapped, "I'm fine. Please, leave me be."

"Mycroft..."

"Gregory."

The DI let out a huff. "Fine. But you're seeing one eventually."

"Fine," the ginger replied, swallowing, "Just not now."

"Fair enough," Greg muttered, "Do you....you know, need anything?"

"What could I possibly need?"

"Well, your assistant just died...I thought you could use a shoulder to cry on," the silver-haired man gave Mycroft a small smile, hoping to ease the tension currently mounting in his shoulders. 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, both amused and annoyed; his strength was beginning to return, he could feel it. "Thank you for the offer, but I don't cry."

"Don't be ridiculous. Everybody cries."

"I don't."

"You were crying when..." Greg tried to stop himself, but the damage had already been done. Mycroft looked up at his partner (god, it felt nice to be able to think of him that way again), shocked. The DI raised his eyebrows, and his hand flew to his mouth. "Oh god, I didn't mean..."

Mycroft didn't hear the rest of his explanation, as he was swiftly immersed in his own dream-world; he could hear Anthea's scream as clearly as if it were happening right beside him, feel her presence as if her body was standing right next to him, her voice ringing in his ears. He unconsciously reached up to cover his ears, tearing the IV from the back of his hand, and pressed his fingers against the shells of his sensitive, pale ears, a high-pitched, pitiful sound escaping him. Suddenly there was nothing but pain; a deep, terrible emotional pain that felt as if someone had ripped his heart into hundreds of pieces. He hadn't been able to save Anthea; that was what hurt the most. She spent most of her professional life protecting him, and he hadn't been able to protect her the one time she needed him.

He'd lost nearly everything, he realized; Anthea, his own sense of security, trust in anyone other than himself and possibly Gregory, everything. The only things he had left in the world were his job and Greg, and he wasn't about to let either of those things go.

Greg lurched forward to grab ahold of Mycroft, quickly throwing his arms around the ginger's torso, trying to keep him still. "Mycroft, Christ!" he exclaimed, reaching up to cup Mycroft's chin in his left hand, "Mycroft..."

"I lost _everything_!" Mycroft whimpered, the floodgates that had been holding back his tears of anguish, guilt, and regret finally breaking, every one of his defenses finally crumbling down like a long-forgotten, condemned wall. "She's dead, and it's my fault! It's my fault!"

"No it isn't," Greg said firmly, pulling Mycroft into his arms and pressing his cheek against the ginger's. "It's not your fault, do you understand me? It was _not_ your fault."

"She just...she..." Mycroft hicupped loudly, burying his face in his lover's neck and letting out another sob; he honestly didn't care anymore who saw his emotions; he'd lost nearly everything he held dear (not Gregory, thank god for that), and he couldn't stop himself from sobbing into his partner's shoulder, loud gasps and tiny cries escaping him, his throat closing up from the enormity of his grief and anger. 

"I know, love," Greg soothed, adjusting his position so he was lying in bed next to Mycroft, his arms wrapped around the younger man's torso. He ran his hand down Mycroft's spine, pressing soft kisses to his head. "I know, love, I know..."

"The last thing she...she...she said to me...." Mycroft couldn't stop himself from stuttering and gasping, and somewhere deep inside, his little inner voice wasmost liely having a coronary. "She..."

"Shh," the DI murmured, "I know, love. I know how much you loved her."

"She was supposed to be here!" the goverment official sobbed into Greg's shoulder, "She promised me!"

"Sometimes we can't keep all our promises, love." the DI replied, his heart breaking for his lover; he'd never seen the government official so sensitive, so exposed, and so broken. In all honesty, it terrified him. "She would have stayed if the could. She loved you, Myc."

"I couldn't save her!"

"Maybe she didn't want you to." the DI replied softly, nuzzling Mycoft's wet, tear-stained cheek gently. "Fate and all that."

"Fate is a stupid concept" Mycroft replied bitterly, the pain in his heart intensifying.

"Yeah, but it's better than this," Greg gestured toward Mycroft's cheeks, which were now swollen, red, and streaked with tears, along with being bruised from his ordeal. "She loved you, Mycroft."

"Caring isn't an advantage."

"You care. Look at you," the DI replied, brushing his hand over Mycroft's cheek to wipe his tears away, "Look how much you cared for her."

"And look where it got me." the ginger replied, burying his face in the DI's shoulder, wishing everything in the world would stop, so as to allow him his time to grieve.

"Everyone dies, Mycroft. What matters is what we do when we're alive, and who we do it with." the older man said softly, running his hand up and down Mycroft's spine. "Shh, it's alright...Don't stress yourself too much...It's alright to hurt, Myc. It's alright. Okay, okay...let it out, it's alright. I'm here."

Mycroft squeezed the DI even tighter, keeping his face firmly pressed into his shoulder. He continued to sob, every so often managing to pull away long enough to wipe his nose or sniffle, never letting go of his lover. 

Finally, after nearly an hour, Mycroft's tears began to subside, and he felt exhaustion washing over his entire body, barely able to keep his eyes open for the swelling. Greg pressed a long kiss to Mycroft's temple, then rested his forehead against the younger man's. "There," he soothed, "Feel better?"

"No," Mycroft croaked, "Just tired."

"You'll feel better in a little while. Try to sleep, love," the DI replied, "I'll stay if you want."

"Please," Mycroft sniffed, every smug, authoratative tone gone from his voice. What remained was the voice of a terrified man, a broken man; and it nearly broke Greg to hear it.

"Okay," Greg smiled, rubbing his nose against Mycroft's. "I'll stay right here, alright? I won't go anywhere."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

With that final statement from Greg, Mycroft allowed himself to close his eyes, unconsciously cuddling closer to his lover in a bid for both warmth and comfort. Greg didn't mind in the least, and pulled the government official as close as their bodies would allow before resting his chin atop Mycroft's head. "It's alright, go to sleep," Greg soothed, "I'm here."

"Promise?" Mycroft questioned again, his voice slightly slurred.

"I promise." the DI replied, kissing Mycroft's cheek again before settling back into the pillows and closing his own eyes. "I promise..."


	21. Epilogue

Mycroft didn't go to Anthea's funeral, citing that he had 'important business' to attend to. Greg knew that it was because he couldn't handle saying goodbye yet again, so he left Mycroft alone about it. Greg had gone, and it was a lovely service. He knew Anthea wasn't religious, and was grateful her family agreed to leave those parts of the ceremony for their own private mourning. It had hurt, to see the woman he felt had hated him lowered into the ground, her eyes never to open again, her mouth never again to laugh, to speak. He had cried, unashamedly, throughout most of the service, and he hadn't known Anthea all that well. He could only imagine what Mycroft was going through, though the ginger refused to talk about it, instead choosing to pretend none of it had ever happened. He still refused to see the psychiatrist, and had managed to weasel his way out of every appointment Greg made for him. Eventually, the DI had given up, and allowed Mycroft to deal with his feelings any way he saw fit to.

In the months that had passed since then, the two men had grown closer once more, going so far as to attend couples' therapy (of which Mycroft made no effort to hide his loathing), and had managed to repair much of the damage done to their relationship. Things were still difficult at times; they fought, not often, but a tad more than normal couples. Greg attributed it to the fact that Mycroft was a Holmes.

Sherlock and Mycroft were still far from best mates, but had managed to put aside several of their petty fights and become almost-friends, occasionally texting one another to complain about the 'simplicity' of their respective partners.

They hadn't managed to catch the elusive third man involved in Mycroft's kidnapping, but they had put the other two behind bars, and put Nikolas in the ground. The audio bugs had all been catalogued and sent to evidence, never again to see the light of day, perhaps for the best. Greg still worried about the third man some days, but his colleagues had been very quick to let him know that even if he had escaped, Nikolas' empire was being torn apart by hundreds of different countries, and that it would only be a matter of time. He struggled to believe it, but eventually accepted that that was just how things were, and he'd have to deal with it. So when Mycroft came up to him one weekend while he was still in bed, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and said "I'm going out." he hadn't protested. It had become routine for them, to disappear at times to deal with their emotions. Mycroft had expected an argument from the DI, but none came; not that that was a bad thing. 

Since it was mid-July, Mycroft decided to forego his usual suit in favour of a white button-down and his favourite grey trousers, along with his umbrella. No tie, which was a rarity, but for where he was going, he didn't suspect he'd need it. Instead of hailing a cab, like he usually would have, he decided to walk, enjoying the warm, clear weather.

It didn't take him long to reach the cemetary after stopping to pick up flowers on the way. It was a silly gesture that Anthea probably would have yelled at him for, had she been alive. He pushed those thoughts out of his mind, deciding that revisiting the what-ifs would not be good for him, especially now. It had taken him so long to build up the courage and strength to actually go visit Anthea as he had promised, and he didn't want anything to make him change his mind. Instead, he focused his attention on where he was going; a place he had avoided going for several months, simply because the emotional strain of both Anthea's death and his kidnapping ordeal had been too much for him. But today was different; July sixteenth, Anthea's birthday. He owed it to her (he thought, at least) to visit her now, as her birthday had always been her favourite holiday. _"It's because it's all about you,"_ he remembered teasing her. _"Obviously!"_ she'd replied, in a voice mocking Sherlock's.

He smiled to himself as he remembered the last present he had gotten her; it had been silly, an inside-joke between the two of them. It was a white and bright green hand-painted scarf, from Germany. As he scanned the rows of headstones for the one he knew belonged to Anthea, he recalled the event itself. Or rather, the event as it had been told to him by Anthea, and he wasn't sure he believed all of it. 

_"Mycroft, you're drunk."_

_"I am not!"_

_"Okay. What's the capital of New York?"_

_"I...ah...can I have a hint?"_

_"Yep, you're drunk," she replied, grabbing him firmly around the waist, "You're such a lightweight."_

_"Am not!" he whined, "It's that...strong liquor they were serving."_

_"It was beer. Plain, normal beer. You're just a lightweight."_

_"Shaddup," Mycroft slurred, "It's not as if you've never been drunk before."_

_"I've never been drunk off two pints, no," she chuckled, "Come on, let's get you up to the room."_

_"I don't want to go to the room," he pouted, though he didn't make any move to flee, most likely due to his current state of inebriation._

_"Then what do you suggest we do?" she questioned, leading him carefully towards their hotel room door and fishing the key out of her pocket. "You can't do much in this state."_

_"I can so!" Mycroft insisted as Anthea pushed open the door, then pushed him inside. "I can do plenty! I'm the British Government."_

_"Yes you are," she soothed, grabbing his arm, "And you're also quite drunk. On the bed."_

_"Was that an innuendo?" he snickered, complying with Anthea's command._

_"Yes, I so want to jump your bones," she deadpanned, reaching forward to undo the knot in Mycroft's tie. "Jacket off."_

_"But it's comfortable."_

_"_ Off _!"_

_"Fine," Mycroft muttered, slipping off his jacket as Anthea began work on his shirt buttons. "You're mean."_

_"And you're annoying," she replied before reaching down to unbuckle his belt._

_"Hey, hands off," the government official slurred, reaching up with clumsy hands to push her away._

_"For god's sake, I'm not going to suck you off, I just want to get your trousers off so you won't be bitching at me in the morning about how uncomfortable you are."_

_Mycroft snorted, then nodded, allowing himself to fall back onto the bed, a giggle escaping him. "You play nice down there."_

_"I'll fucking cut your bollocks off you keep this shit up," she muttered as she pulled the belt from its loops. "Can you get your trousers off on your own while I get undressed?"_

_"Sure," Mycroft replied giddily, "It'll be simple. I'm brilliant, don't you know."_

_"Yeah, because taking one's trousers off requires quite a bit of brainpower," she laughed, "Be back in a moment."_

Needless to say, Anthea had been rather embarrassed and amused to find Mycroft clad in nothing but his dress shirt, as he'd unwittingly pulled down his pants as well as his trousers. She had returned to find a giddy, giggling, and mostly naked Mycroft, and had promptly begun laughing at him. He blushed when he remembered a small snippet of it; she'd been kind enough to cover him with a blanket, all while whistling at his endowment. "I miss that," he said aloud to no one as his eyes reached the edge of the final row of headstones. There, under the shade of a large tree, sat Anthea's final resting place. Well, not final; nothing is final, really, especially when one is in the ground.

The government official suddenly became very quiet, and cast his eyes down to the ground, as if he were afraid to make any noise. He glanced up at the headstone once more, the gold inlay on the lettering (nothing but the best for Anthea) glimmering in the morning sunlight. 

Mycroft knelt down beside the dark, carefully-carved headstone, Anthea's name engraved on it in tasteful lettering, the same that would one day adorn Mycroft's gravestone. The two had once discussed if the respect they held for the dead person would be altered by what font was used on the headstone that adorned their grave. Anthea had always said if her headstone was in a tacky font that she wouldn't want people coming to see her. Mycroft had echoed this sentiment, and they had both promised to make sure the other didn't wind up with a hideous headstone, though they were only joking at the time.

He reached out to stroke the first letter, almost expecting her to yell at him about boundaries, and remind him of Germany, though no voice came. He smiled to himself, the ache in his chest subsiding slightly. It still hurt, to know that he would never again hear the brunette's giggle, or see her smile. But somehow, being near her body comforted him in a way that not even Gregory had been able to do until then. Perhaps it was a mistake to avoid her funeral, he mused; perhaps he would have been able to move past her death quicker. He knew it was a lie, as he'd never quite get over her death (as she once said, the pain never really goes away), but somehow the little white lies he told himself were making his life a bit easier.

The ginger half-expected the stone to be warm, either due to the weather or some sort of magical presence (which he knew was ridiculous, but found himself hopeful still), and sighed as his fingers came into contact with nothing but cold, smooth stone. He carefully cleared his throat, as if he was afraid to disturb Anthea in her final resting place; he wracked his brain for the right words, trying to find the correct thing to say. But what does one say, in a situation like this, he wondered; he'd never lost anyone as important to him as Anthea was, and he didn't exactly know _how_ to properly grieve.

_"Say what's in your heart, not your mind,"_ he recalled a familiar voice saying, _"You're allowed to be upset. You're allowed to have opinions. You're you, and you can do what you want. You're Mycroft fucking Holmes, my Mycroft. You can do it, go on."_

Smiling at the recollection of Anthea's voice, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, just as a gust of wind blew his curls around his forehead and a leaf from atop the large, dark headstone in front of him. He scowled, then relaxed, remembering that Anthea had liked his curls mussed and imperfect.

He'd promised to visit her, and to speak with her (though he knew she wouldn't talk back) and it was a promise he meant to keep, along with replacing his little nasty inner voice with hers, which had worked surprisingly well. But he owed it to her to be there, he thought; after all, she had kept every promise she ever made to him.

After several long minutes of mind-wracking, soul-searching agony, he found his voice.

"Hello, Anthea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it.


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